I’m trying to write
a poem about a man who
died with a hood on his head,
naked, on the street,
pleading for his life,
murdered while the cameras rolled,
at the hands of those
who are supposed to protect him—
a public snuff film.
I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name.
There have been so many.
My shudder reflex is still active.
I can’t watch this, but
I watch regardless—
in some small way so he
would not die without witness,
after witness, after witness, after….
How do I write about this?
What can I say as poignant
as his own begging?
What can I say as meaningful
as the tears of his own family?
Seriously,
what am I supposed to do?
If he were my son,
I’d want the world to burn too.
Adam Byrn Tritt 