The Tradition

by Jericho Brown

The people of my country believe We can’t be hurt if we can be bought.

There is the happiness you have And the happiness you deserve.

To press a left or right eye into the barrel and see Our actual selves taken down to a cell Then blown back up again, every atomic thing

Aster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt,

Gratitude is black— Black as a hero returning from war to a country that banked on his death. Thank God. It can’t get much darker than that.

They open in the day and close at night. They are good at appearances. They are white. I judge them, judge the study they make Of themselves, aspirational beings, fake If you ask me. If you ask me, I’ll say no, Thank you, I don’t need to watch what goes Only imagining itself seen, don’t need To see them yawn their thin mouths and feed

Yes, I may be at risk, But I promise you, I trust the maggots Who live beneath the floorboards Of my house to do what they must To any carcass more than I trust An officer of the law of the land

I promise if you hear Of me dead anywhere near A cop, then that cop killed me. He took Me from us and left my body,

None of the beaten end up how we began.

They thought they could Own the dirt they were Bound to.

In him lives my black anger made red. They play. He is not yet incarcerated.

We believe We own your bodies but have no Use for your tears. We destroy The body that refuses use.

We love land so Long as we can take it.

Candles are Romantic because We understand shadows.

The man who tinted me best kept me looking a little Like a chore.

And I sing, again, those songs because I know The value of sweet music when we need to pass The time without wondering what rots beneath our feet.

See how this mouth opens To speak what language you allow me With the threat of my head cradled safe.

I don’t have kids Cuz I’d have to send them to school Ain’t that safe as any Plan for parenthood Mass shooting blues

Some of us don’t need hell to be good.

Those who need most, need hell to be good. What are the symptoms of your sickness?

Rising just to find a way toward rest again.

Not listening. I am not a saint Because I keep trying to be a sound, something You will remember Once you’ve lived enough not to believe in heaven.

So the Bible says, in the beginning, Blackness. I am alive. You? Alive. You born with the nerve