Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial, Washington, DC.
A day in Washington, DC
If tears could water
seeds, then gardens
would grow from sorrow;
and roses, perfect roses,
peace roses,
compassion flowers,
would flower in every season.
Like climbing plants
refreshed by rain
photos
reach up to the sky
begging for the sun,
but instead fall down to hell.
Thousands of faces accuse,
tell stories
but leave out the endings.
I carry an identification card
of a little girl
buried somewhere,
perhaps in ashes spread
upon unfamiliar ground
where her feet never walked.
Shoes piled upon shoes,
locks of hair stuffed in bags
with locks of hair.
There is profit in hair
and stolen possessions.
And stolen lives.
The hair holds stories,
old white hair and young brown hair,
men’s hair and women’s hair,
gay, straight,
hair of the rabbi, hair of the layman,
hair of the Jew and the Communist,
whiskers of the Roma and the scholar,
the rich and the poor,
the erudite and the unlearned.
Hair falls down below the shoes,
shorn;
and teardrops fall on naked feet.
Hewed from a mountain of injustice
he planted seeds of equality. He speaks to us still,
urging love to conquer hate,
forgiveness to overcome injustice.
African-American tourists
stand by his quotes,
picturing themselves as descendants of his word.
We are still climbing to the mountaintop.
We are still struggling to end slavery.
We are still trying to figure out how to sit
together
at the lunch counter.
Equality is still a dream that a man may have,
but it needs nurturing to grow.
The dream is still a dream.
We honor the memory of the dreamer,
speak his words like Biblical verses,
and choose the chapters by which we live.
We choose the chapters by which we live.
In the garden of hope I have a dream.
I have a dream.
I have a dream that some day
we
will
all be equal.
I hold this dream to be self-evident.
Monuments to war
sprout like trees
watered by tears.
A long, black slab stretches
across the landscape,
like a dark prince
offering a hug to the earth
where bodies fall to dust.
Names give life to the dead.
Richard L. Reed.
W6, 113.
But there is no story—
only a name—
no picture with his smile
and gentle eyes, no mention
that he was a farm boy, just married,
beautiful wife, proud parents.
I cannot bear to trace his name
or trace my memory.
And I think of Joey, too.
At the end of the wall
names stop abruptly
where the wall plunges into the earth
like a shovel digging a grave.
Joey’s name is not there—
Agent Orange
kept him from the wall.
Still today
there are suicides, and long-suffering soldiers
still dying.
Still today
there are those still living with wounded souls.
Still today
bodies are counted.
Still today
names are written into the earth
and flowers grow where tears are shed.
Under the earth
on the subway a black man
sits
on the floor. He could
just as easily be white.
He pleads,
a repetitious recitation:
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?”
A woman reaches out to him with a five dollar bill in her hand—
I think to shut him up. He takes the bill.
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“Excuse me, might someone be able to help me?
“I need $18 dollars for a room for the night.”
Two sisters, black and white, with babies in carriages
pushed by mothers too young to be mothers
laugh.
“He said, ‘Might someone help me’, and that woman
“she
“gave him FIVE dollars. Anyone
“could sit the floor and ask that.
“And where you get a room for $18? I need to know that.”
Her sister friend peeks into her baby carriage and speaks:
“Do you want to help him? No,”
she answers for the child. “No, you don’t.”
And me, I do not reach into my pocket,
more afraid of their judgment than of his pleas,
his please,
and my shame becomes greater than his need.
The subway train door opens.
I exit,
up the stairs where a homeless
woman, Latina, stands with her daughter
and a sign pleading for help.
I reach into my pocket and hand the girl some money,
smile,
and walk away.
I smile and walk away, wiping a tear from my eye,
watering my soul for a new season.
1/23/12
In the air between Washington, DC and Madison, Wisconsin
