11/25/14

There are leaf-stains on the sidewalk this morning

from the rain last night, little brown memories, little
ghosts, little impressionistic paintings on the concrete,

the leaves themselves all gone. The trees are bare.
In a day, or two, or five, nothing will be left.

This is a metaphor, of course. It’s heavy-handed, true,

but Ferguson is refusing to be turned into a poem
and so the options are limited. The leaves are
the bodies, obviously. Trayvon, Michael. Tamir, Eric, John.

Michael Brown’s body lay in the street for hours

and whatever mark he made on the asphalt is long
since gone, his family left with memories, ghosts,

impressionistic paintings of an eighteen-year-long life.

The life itself all gone. Can you see the poem

begin to unfold? It is autumn. The leaves are falling.

Can you see, also, the limits of metaphor? Let me

speak plainly: these deaths were not inevitable.

They were not leaves scheduled to fall before winter.

The stains these bodies made on the sidewalks
and roads and autopsy tables were not art.

The sky is grey, heavy with snow. Michael Brown
was shot dead in August. Walking down the street.
Eighteen years old. Michael Brown is refusing

to be turned into a poem. There is nothing left to say.