Kricket

“A poem is a gesture toward home.”
― Jericho Brown

“We’d like a list of what we lost
Think of those who landed in the Atlantic
The sharkiest of waters
Bonnetheads and thrashers
Spinners and blacktips
We are made of so much water
Bodies of water
Bodies walking upright on the mud at the bottom
The mud they must call nighttime
Oh there was some survival
Life
After life on the Atlantic—this present grief
So old we see through it
So thick we can touch it
And Jesus said of his wound Go on, touch it
I don’t have the reach
I’m not qualified
I can’t swim or walk or handle a hoe
I can’t kill a man
Or write it down
A list of what we lost
The history of the wound
The history of the wound
That somebody bought them
That somebody brought them
To the shore of Virginia and then
Inland
Into the land of cliché
I’d rather know their faces
Their names
My love yes you
Whether you pray or not
If I knew your name
I’d ask you to help me
Imagine even a single tooth
I’d ask you to write that down
But there’s not enough ink

I’d like to write a list of what we lost.

Think of those who landed in the Atlantic,

Think of life after life on the Atlantic—
Sweet Jesus. A grief so thick I could touch it.

And Jesus said of his wound, Go on, touch it.
But I don’t have the reach. I’m not qualified.

And you? How’s your reach? Are you qualified?
Don’t you know the history of the wound?

Here is the history of the wound:
Somebody brought them. Somebody bought them.

Though I know who caught them, sold them, bought them,
I’d rather focus on their faces, their names.”
― Jericho Brown, Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America, 1619-2019

“Nobody in this nation feels safe, and I'm still a reason why.”
― Jericho Brown, The Tradition

“My mother grew morning glories that spilled onto the walkway toward her porch
Because she was a woman with land who showed as much by giving it color.
She told me I could have whatever I worked for. That means she was an American.
But she’d say it was because she believed
In God. I am ashamed of America
And confounded by God.”
― Jericho Brown, The Tradition