The Coffin of Emmett Till

~ I cry every day. But I cry as I move. 

                                                —Mamie Till-Mobley

It is the silence
the barn door slammed shut
on a child in the middle of the night
the way the river water
rushes, covers what it covers
the way the heavy lid
stays shut
stays shut
until she refuses
silence
the awful lid
her child shut
beneath the moon, the ink-black water
that covers
what they did—it took more
than one beating, it took the fan
of a cotton gin
it took a knot of barbed wire
it took
the fear of big white men
yet still
he floated up
and she refuses silence
and she names him
and she refuses
to bury this
boy beneath the lid
he’s traveled far
all the way back
from any hole in Mississippi, far
from orders of that government
and it can’t just be
a leaden box
of stones or bricks
it can’t just be
a trick
with no boy there
on that returning train
a box big enough to fill
three graves
she refuses, she unseals
she needs to know
the way the distant river
and its little markets,
little houses,
sheriffs with their guns and beer and pop
the official state itself
Mississippi
would cover him
she would know
this is her child
from his well-made
slender
ankle bones
his sturdy legs
none of Emmett’s body scarred
all the way up
up to his chin
she needs to
face him
face him

open it

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