“XIV” by Joanne Godley, a poem (previously known as “Anatomy of a Scar”) from her chapbook, Picking Scabs from the Body History, released in July, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.
Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.
“XIV”
I will not touch this wound will not I’ve taped my hands at
night worn mittens and gloves created internal distractions to
stay as far the hell away from myself so the hurts could crust and
scab over I am a Black mother who told both children at their
becoming ages what it meant to be a Black in America; as they
left the Cute age, transitioned to the Intimidating age, & arrived
at the Dangerous age—America’s categories for Black youth—I
read the little black book to them at night How to Be Black and Stay
Alive—my girl included—the book told you to look a grownup
in the eye; to neither smirk nor shirk nor grin when spoken to;
stressed the importance of enunciating and articulating the King’s
English every day; to respect their elders; to neither lie nor cheat;
to say ‘yes sir’ to an officer; and understand that milk is a food not
a beverage
when my son was a phd at U Chicago*, he organized a protest
group—U Chicago having closed their Trauma Unit forcing many
South Siders to bleed to death en route to an ER across town;
Miz O was then administrator—the group leafleted, held talks,
picketed, engaged and enraged the University for years someone
sent me a YouTube video of my son’s arrest at one protest Chi
town cops surrounded him he asked that they call the University
because the protest was sanctioned he used the safe word those
pigs took my 77-inch baby down face down then opened ranks
the camera showed him on his face on the ground handcuffed my
heart flash froze I tried to squeeze my body up into that phone
and shove aside those cops slip off his manacles and say, “get up,
Baby. Mama’s here.” this drama plays on repeat in my head a
zillion times each day each night Trayvon Martin / Eric Garner
/ Sean Bell / Michael Brown / Alton Sterling made the news for
walking or running or speaking for saying nothing or breathing or
simply being Black and human silent tears well and crest inside
my pain is a wrapped box no one wants to open the anti-gift I
am all Black mothers to all Black daughters and sons birthing
them growing them launching them into the world to fight social
wrongs or die trying their exit wounds wound me linger deep
crust over taut tough scars I point to with Black motherpride
this scab that scab
“there, those be my sons”
* The U Chicago Med Center broke ground on a new trauma center 9/2016—
two years after my son received his doctorate
