This poem is a dramatic monologue based on the Oxford Mississippi riots of 1962, written in the voice of my Latina mother and her response if she were experiencing this event.
“Yoly, what happened last night?”
Nuestro país, nuestra isla, our land.
They always said eso malditos negros!
Racial slurs but nonetheless drunken
Haitianos, Africanos—negros son negros.
The riots replayed in my mind,
pausing, rewinding and revealing
a boy’s swollen face,
as rocks shattered tainted
glass. Sirens violated my ears,
silenced the screams,
my very own—
blood drips down his face, pobrecito.
That night, insomnia gripped my sleep, shadows
lingered, pride chained me to bed,
all I could picture was
thenogoodsonofasittingnexttoaprettysunflowerwhitegirl
entering the school I pass by every day.
I was ready to rip him apart,
bury him en la tierra de Díos
he pounds on every day, esclavo,
soiled hands, jorobado.
El pobre negro no sabe,
his skin rots as the bottom
of the filthy river of our town,
but his eyes ashy with sleep
failed to see lies spewed by bembas,
filled with distrust.
Meanwhile, the fires ignited the walls,
crimson light exposing
his dreary face.
Night fell quickly,
but the shouts
traveled down my spine
for years.
Él se mereció la muerte, two bullets erasing
the day when another negro
walked our town.
Que desgracia...
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