Blood On The Grass (for Trayvon Martin)

Close your eyes

and listen--

Can you hear it?

It’s the cry of yet another Rachel,

weeping for her children,

and refusing to be comforted;

it echoes 

in the cry of Sybrina Fulton,

and Wanda Johnson;

it reverberates even still

from Mamie Till Mobley,

now since departed 

and reunited

with her beloved

and taken-too-soon Emmitt;

can you hear it?

the collective cries

of scores of mothers

who will never see their sons

grow old,

never fall in love,

or pursue their dreams;

listen,

you might just also hear

the cries

of blood from the ground--

cries for justice,

justice that may never come,

because we choose not to listen;

choose to keep our eyes closed

to the fact that our children

are dying needlessly,

senselessly,

and with little

to no recourse.

I’ve heard it said,

that it would be better

if a millstone

was hung around the neck

of one who were to cause 

a little one to stumble;

and yet,

perpetrators are allowed to roam

freely,

trampling underfoot,

blood left on the grass,

having ignored screams 

for mercy;

while we care more for the child not yet born

than for the one who is already

among us.

Now,

I want you to open your eyes

and imagine,

that it was your son,

your daughter,

your brother,

your sister,

pleading for their lives,

begging for mercy,

crying for help,

for justice.

What would you do then?

What would you do?

What will you do?

What?!

© 2013 Joseph Powell