On Killers, Untroubled, Who Looked into the Camera at Lynching’s
There are oceans we have never known
except in stories
or ones we read of in books
from the safety of shore
watching waves crest, wind ravaged.
Here is an ocean glutted
with bodies with names –
with voices real as mine
and yours,
with mothers.
Here is an ocean
whose cries crying No
vanished into smoke,
an ocean of escalation, accusations,
laugh-howling, shrieking.
Here is an ocean of fear
real as a hammer in a hand,
fear as food, prayers as fuel,
an ocean of bodies shivering, sweating,
piss-down-their-legs puddling.
Here is an ocean of carnival glee
at this … where anything goes …
for those who look to the lens, carefree
to be seen in this
they bring themselves to do.
