“Our Flag Means Death,” Poem, Keziah Johnson.
BLUE
bruises beaten into dark canvas,
fading leisurely like the summer sun but always rising again
WHITE
bones tossed out and buried with no names
or left to be picked over and examined in a place barring their existence
calluses worked into the skin, the only protection for ones like these
RED
marked stripes up the backs, split open and pulsing
burns, blistered and bubbling, from the sun’s unctuous kisses
blood spilt and spilt and spilt
STARS like the ones looked up to, wished at, prayed to, praised and sung for
STARS that were sometimes the only witness to how the cover of darkness was used as a godsend
STARS that know the stories of when that same darkness was all-consuming, the enemy
rows of cotton and sugar and tobacco
STRIPES like gashes of meat and sliver of bone
lines marred with strengths and weaknesses, separation, longing, and tears of sorrow
an appliqué fitted together loosely, unequally yoked
a nation basted of states too eager to be unseamed,
stitched together by the hands of souls not counted, overlooked, neglected and abused:
stolen
hunted
orphaned
sold
bought
owned
raped
gred
tortured
whipped
pummeled
flogged
mutilated
hanged
burned
drowned
forgotten
a toile sewn together and ripped apart by those whose names and stories that were never known
to forget
over ten million stitches (myriads of myriads) to create prosperity and freedom—
“Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness”—
one that was never theirs to own,
made with the sharp point of those seeking to hurt, to rob, to violate
and when holes were eaten through
and the fabric of everything that had ever been known was torn apart,
it was darned and stitched back together at the expense of its original fabricator.
And it was hung proudly.
Keziah has been creating ever since she was old enough to use her hands. Her one wish is for her writing to make people think and to feel, and she hopes it moves them to create something better (even if it's just for themselves).