pith…

When the planets turned ready
in slow-time abeyance for a rendition
of lives to clash, maybe Cherokee man
or colonial long hunter, maybe English renegade,
or would-be farmer plunging his hands in
black dirt to tease out a weed’s root system,
or maybe highland warrior who puts his
tired head to his suffering wife’s breast
assembled on this day, this ejection of red
and flesh, the gasp of Baby Boy Smith
for there was no other name.

Now there is the dark before the dawn
that brings the chirping of birds like those
within an ivy-covered wall of a university
building where we walked and my
umbrella snapped back continuously
in the strong wind like an animal trap
with sex and not death in its maw,
so on this morning the birds wake
for hours before the light and peep
out a missive for you today:
Look in your house, the nineteen year
old punk did not die. See all that
you have made, all the people of your mind,
all your broken, and all your gentle
are housed inside.

.

Jenny Benjamin-Smith, April 3 2010