by Greg Friedman
shoot first
lie after
They came in search of virgin
land but found earth who was
mother, sky who was father
to those who walked on, under,
in harmonies unknown across
oceans. Unaware in the grasping.
shoot first
lie after
They told us the stories: patriots
of liberating pine trees and snakes
un-tread-upon, wresting liberty
from plough-wielding hands and
chained feet brought unwilling,
un-asked-for to bondage.
shoot first,
lie after
We learned the lie, detonate it
annually with fanfare and fire,
touting tricornered hats and parchment
promises which excluded souls
with hypocrisy’s math which
wove the original sin into
the flag-fabric of a nation.
shoot first
lie after
Even the taciturn words of Lincoln,
mixing the knife-edged speeches of
Douglass, passed into shades on blood-
lands, and twisted into stone idols of
Lee and Jackson, while newer
promises stonewalled freedom.
shoot first
lie after
Riders of terror hiding under white
in black nights un-re-constructed
the fragile facades of freedmen’s
bureaus and the warrior-president,
while carpetbags carried the poisons
of our Adam’s choices, the apple
eaten once and choking, choking us still.
shoot first
lie after
They marched, some walked into water-
cannon resistance, some earned ropes
others bullets. But a people progressed,
overcame, would not be moved until law
moved and protections etched on stones
hewn from prophets’ preaching. Alas,
though, alas, the original grasp of
the banned fruit reached again to
roll back black tides of truth, un-
write the engraved securities and
spread denial with ballots and faces
shrouded lest we see hate’s true faces.
Shoot first
lie after
What mirrors can poets hold up
to who we are, the maga-faces of
us, masked and armed with original
animosity, that snake-fed wish for
the knowledge of evil without good,
the forbidden fruit of persistent
preferences, potent with orange truths,
to contrive, convince what eyes saw,
not innocence—but what hate reshapes.
shoot first
lie after
Our weak words gain spirit in gathered
places of open and zoomed assemblies
of naming, crafted calls for hands to
join and more voices to move between
the guns and the victims, recognize
the lies as they spew like Connor’s
cannons to push us off the streets
of spoken truths. We speak first,
second, third and always,
after
and until.
Greg Friedman is a Franciscan priest, author and poet, currently living in Rome, Italy.
