• Carly Feinman

Day 8- 9.24.20

This is a poem I started in 2015, as the 2016 election was getting close. Today, I finished it. I wish more was different. Let's work to make things different.


Witnesses are at the heart of all great historical events.

Push your gaze between necks in the crowd and

you'll see hands--bare, calloused hands free of stones.

You'll see empty hands, hands holding cardboard signs,

you'll see lovers, you'll see eyes like rusting pennies, like

bloodied rubber bullets.

Revolutions pluck those who've been scratched and

those who haven't, well

they watch online.

These unscratched boys

with their deeply rooted spiritual values

itch for a cause for which to

roll up their sleeves.

Place a firearm in their hands and you'll see the spark--

the spark triggered by that weighted metal.

They'll hurl words like freedom and justice but

what they really want is a hot meal, to hold a hand, and

for future generations to know their names.

Hundreds of thousands of bold authentic people

stand still as others get sprayed in the streets,

as boots lose their shine and chest cavities are

shelled and split.

As the sun sets and last names dissolve into thick black tallies,

they cover their eyes.

As a coffin the size of a little red wagon is passed over cowered heads and

lowered into a hole dug by a single weeping father

they cover their ears.

Like a glass chandelier,

silence hangs heavy but

boy, is it clean.


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