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Shudder Reflex

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.

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2020 in Culture, Poetry, Social

 

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