THE PIETA
by Samuel Son
Featured on Life As Activism
charred, acrid smell of gunpowder
smokes from the holes in Philando’s body,
which carries the stigma(ta) of
all things dark,
lead from the muzzle
to the flesh, three wounds enough
to steal the soul, four more
for good measure
out of black
skin red blood pools
soaks white cotton
black…….. red……….white
red…………black…….white
black……..black……..black
Mary can’t hold him,
she wants
……………to cradle him
she wants
……………to take his place,
she wants
……………to pull him back,
she wants
……………to spare him black death,
but Mary can’t
The lance spearing her heart is
her uselessness
To be born black is to be born with a cross-
hair on your back
Mary don’t weep
give
witness
Samuel Son is columnist at North State Journal, Sojourner, and Presbyterian Outlook. He has poems published and forthcoming at American Journal of Poetry, Cultural Weekly, Ghostwood Books and Tuck Magazine. He serves as a teaching pastor at New Life Triangle.
Image credit: Tony Webstser on Flickr
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