A swarm of ghost-stung people
Run to see him, footsteps crushing the dreams
Of 17 men
Happening to an angel-faced man
With blood-crusted anchors instead of wings.
17 voices trusted him with sequined fears--
Whose slow, screaming deaths were pressed into
Bloodless laughter among those
Who never lost sleep over a stolen soul.
17 sons, some with wives,
With children, whose clay-fingered eyes
Hold tears too scared to fall,
Lest grief drowns them all.
17 brothers, who giggled and teased,
Kissing boo-boos and reading babies to sleep.
Above ground, they're soft heartbeats,
Forever humming in the breath of memories.
17 blamed for any white man's doing--
Glass-winged lives flutter against steel cages,
Memories dissolved by their thief's acid-boned ages--
Too black, too gay, too human.
We never hear what they wanted to be,
Only the pain we see--
Never faceless gifts or jokes,
That 17 men shared with the same world
That shattered their lives.
17 breaths swell across the sky,
Whispering of lost tomorrows,
Stars always glittering
Where their faces should be.
There is only a shadow,
Gleaming gold as money in graves
Of 17 dreams.
