Considered

His story came in bits and bytes
A young black man, a boy really, was shot in Florida
 The loss of any life, good or bad is cause for pause,
 Minimally, a moment of reflection on the loss of a human being.
 In other cases, a prayer, a candlelight vigil, a funeral, a protest, a memorial in memoriam
 As his story unfolded, so too, did I
 much like the stars and stripes unfurl
 each morning on the flag pole in my son’s schoolyard
 whipping against the winds that blow,
 flying high, even when an occasion, such as this
 calls for half mast.

 As I considered the 17 year old boy who would never become a man,
 I felt a profound sense of loss.
 Perhaps it is, in part, that my own children are on the cusp of adulthood
 and, in this, I imagined the loss his parents must feel.
 Inside my chest, I felt my heart twist into a purple bruise
 leaking grief into my belly, taking seed in my womb,
 and cried for my babies who were never born
 and the children who would never become adults.
 But this isn’t about me, it is about Trayvon Martin.


 As I considered the man who shot the 17 year old boy who would never become a man,
 Older, bigger, lighter, angrier
 I was angrier even than he
 Angry at impotent men who want to be cops
 Furious at wannabe cops who carry guns
 Livid that toting a gun often creates overestimated power
 Enraged at self important men, like this killer, for the testosterone they carry in their aggressive loins
 and I felt my womb violently contract, expelling the
 afterbirth of my rage onto the clean white tiles of my kitchen floor
 creating a river not unlike the blood spilled that February night.
 But this isn’t about me, it is about Trayvon Martin

As I considered the police who failed in their investigation of the murder of the 17 year old boy who will never become a man
 I was infuriated
 Incensed with the authorities who fail to believe that victims
 are, in fact, victims
 The beaten sent home to their abusers,
 the molested sent back to their caregivers,
 the raped who will never see justice,
 the parents who have to fight to have an investigation become an investigation,
 the 17 year old boy who will never become a man.
 and my peacemaking hands become fireball fists and I beat
 against the whitewashed picket fence in front of my home
 creating a funeral pyre for a boy who will never become a man
 and who, in dying far too young, pushes me outside the comfort of
 my tidy world of clean floors, perennial gardens and lily white dreams.


But this really isn’t about me, it is about Trayvon Martin.

And I realize, I must do something.

At a loss as to what to do,
I sign the petition to the Florida Attorney General
I wear a hoodie in protest and post the photograph for all the world to see
I pray for the serenity to do no harm
even when I want to claw out Zimmerman’s eyes
and throw them in the gutter
as penance for Trayvon’s, their light forever extinguished.
I teach my children to create peace and dismantle violence
even when turning their tender cheeks seems to reap few immediate rewards.
I love my neighbors
and extend my neighborhood far beyond the boundaries of my tidy little home.
I face that which makes me uncomfortable
and find the courage to seek understanding
even if it requires me to ask questions others might deem dumb.
Again, this isn’t about me, it is about Trayvon Martin, but
I realize, change starts within me and through my children
and, in this, it is about Trayvon Martin, a member of my
extended neighborhood,
a once future King,
and my brother.

~ Mk Michaels, 2012