Rodney King Mistakes The Deep End Of His Swimming Pool For The Atlantic Or Police Brutality Is A Middle Passage, Is A Flood

dry land ain’t never been for black folk
the earth taketh away, swallowing who
it knows to be a grieving thing- whom else
incites a fire, ignites a riot—a billy-club
built—a man from dust. a nigga was only
heading home and now home is a camera flash
a drowning in a bottle and bathtub
i’m sure, there is a dirge looping
that rodney fell into, a hell opening again except
each time you reach god, you unbecome
and where do you go after you’ve been
resurrected in the flesh? and
is that where black is? LA asphalt cross
no! water is softer!: a baptismal in a pool,
a communion of blood can be an ocean
the water knows this: as a nigga
cometh, so shall then a nigga depart, ask the ocean
how many came by sea- by salt. salt-water
has a perfect memory, so be it all of us are
trying to get back to where we came from
rodney gave up the ghost like his daddy
both on father’s day. there is a quote
about lineage that doesn’t quite fit but know
not much fits nor opens except death except
think of this more as unborn
and where do you go if you are un-
born—a womb? backyard swimming pool?
is that holy enough? a hole
at the bottom of the sea / sea / sea / we promise
we are always looking for a way home

—Porsha Olayiwola (The Quarry: A Social Justice Poetry Database)

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