“I gotta run at eight.” “So we got seventeen minutes to write this.”
“He gotta a gun and hate.” “He’s seventeen years old bleeding to death.”
He was a kid. He could’ve been mine as me could have been yours.
We don’t have that kinda lingo in Seattle. We have everywhere a battle.
With 9mm ruler sticks measuring out your lifespan. Kadir Skinner,
19-years-old. “We have a warning. This video is difficult to watch.”
Have you seen Sinners?
Fourteen shots, 2 blocks ran. He was running.
How does someone defend themselves with their back turned?
Grey hoodie turned red with hate. How does someone hear
Black words? I’m not talking about the good cops. We’re
talking about the bad cops. We’re talking about black ops.
We’re talking about being hooded, dropped. “He was clearly
running away.” He has a gun he had a gun. The only gun
to his head pointed by the one with the blue
thread. “I gotta run at eight.” “So we got eleven minutes to write
this poem.” Cops protecting a land they not even
from. Drum bomb, Iran with a gun. 14 shots
10 blocks from the sun. You motherfucks
ain’t want this son. Honey bloody money
call for your mum. We’re not talking about the Black cops,
we’re talking about the bad cops. Bad cops
ain’t far from the good cops. 10 blocks
running from the blue opps. Black bodies not far from
their homes. Shot. Glock 19 MOS pistol
whipped car with lights too
bright. I can’t see. Pissed writing this. Resist.
I can’t see I can’t see. I. Can’t. See.
He was clearly running away. Unarmed.
Unharmed? Hell no. Fuck the politicing
the hall of pity, shit ain’t witty. Fuck the politicing
coming straight from the underground, a young brother
got it bad ‘cause he’s dead. Dead, honey. Dead,
you hear that. Dead.
You better start running now, motherfucker
We not talking about the Black cops,
the bad cops; shoot you down
front of your dad cops.
“Where’s your cousin?”
“He’s deceased.”
Body camera video of deadly police shooting released.
“I gotta run at eight.” “We got three minutes to write this fucking poem.”
Ain’t bout the poem no more.
Words on a page
can’t hold this rage.
Please, don’t shoot.
I can’t see. Blood in my eyes
I can’t see.
I can’t sleep.
He can’t do anything except sleep.
If you held a microphone up to this brother
What would he say?
Amaré, we got one more minute to write this poem:
what you got to say to the world?
Fuck the politicking this is real life.
Klu klux hold the world to a real knife.
Amaré Fields is a young Black and Japanese poet and scholar currently attending Yale University.
Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.
