Malcolm

do not speak to me of martyrdom, 

of men who die to be remembered 

on some parish day. 

i don't believe in dying

though, I too shall die. 

and violets like castanets 

will echo me. 

yet this man, 

this dreamer, 

thick lipped with words 

will never speak again 

and in each winter 

when the cold air cracks 

with frost I'll breathe 

his breath and mourn 

my gunfilled nights. 

he was the sun that tagged 

the western sky and 

melted tiger-scholars 

while they searched for stripes.

he said, "fuck you, white 

man. we have been 

curled too long. nothing 

is sacred, not your 

white face nor any 

land that separates 

until some voices

squat with spasms." 

do not speak to me of living. 

life is obscene with crowds 

of white on black. 

death is my pulse. 

what might have been

is not for him/or me 

but what could have been 

floods the womb until I drown.