In Our Name: Troy Davis (October 9, 1968 – September 21, 2011)
Troy Davis is dead. For some absurd reason I expected this not to happen. Seven out of nine eye witnesses have taken back their testimony. Citizens around the world spoke out to protest this miscarriage of justice. Peaceful protesters held signs up in city squares yesterday across the globe.
It is not my habit to post my poems. And yet, here is a poem I wrote over a decade ago that unfortunately is just as relevant today.
We are all Troy Davis
In Our Name
Inside this room we don't come to: the sizzle and spit as of fat in a pan, a sweet-heavy smell of flesh in flames, and two exhaust fans turning
toward a man whose hair on his left leg and head have been shaved, a diaper pinned in the waist of his jeans.
No prayers, no words, will he slipin his hands; only the fingers can legally burn into blue smithereens.
Here is the soft mauve cloth he'll wearwhich will hide the human face when the veins push out of his molting skin
like glass ridges on a jar or vase.Let this chair mark the spot where his heart shudders, then pops
in accordance with Florida law.Here, stand in this room with no view of the sea, meet the warden
the Imam, the Rabbi, the Priest.See the doctor who shines a light in the eye of a man when he's three minutes dead.
Here in a room, with a switch on a wall,is one citizen paid always in cash --- assuring usthe nightmares he has may never be publicly shared.
From The Cartographer's Tongue, White Pine Press, 2000
Finally, this is not an isolated case. This week's Letter of Note provides information on death row prisoners that have been exonerated by DNA testing. "I love life too much" is worth reading, too.
It is not my habit to post my poems. And yet, here is a poem I wrote over a decade ago that unfortunately is just as relevant today.
We are all Troy DavisIn Our Name
Inside this room we don't come to: the sizzle and spit as of fat in a pan, a sweet-heavy smell of flesh in flames, and two exhaust fans turning
toward a man whose hair on his left leg and head have been shaved, a diaper pinned in the waist of his jeans.
No prayers, no words, will he slipin his hands; only the fingers can legally burn into blue smithereens.
Here is the soft mauve cloth he'll wearwhich will hide the human face when the veins push out of his molting skin
like glass ridges on a jar or vase.Let this chair mark the spot where his heart shudders, then pops
in accordance with Florida law.Here, stand in this room with no view of the sea, meet the warden
the Imam, the Rabbi, the Priest.See the doctor who shines a light in the eye of a man when he's three minutes dead.
Here in a room, with a switch on a wall,is one citizen paid always in cash --- assuring usthe nightmares he has may never be publicly shared.
From The Cartographer's Tongue, White Pine Press, 2000
Finally, this is not an isolated case. This week's Letter of Note provides information on death row prisoners that have been exonerated by DNA testing. "I love life too much" is worth reading, too.
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