"Untitled" by Prachi Valechha
For My Old Breonna Home by Truth Thomas
In my fetal curl, I’m still pierced
by points of lead,
firing through Kentucky’s
no-knock early morn,
singing lines of death from arias
of smoke, battering
ram timpani, an entourage
of one. One, subtracted
from the lover’s binary, Bluegrass
census ink, breath-
less as a choke.
In my crimson pose,
their plain-clothed hoofs still derby
through my door.
AND they’re off:
City of Bullets, out
quickly. Country of Rounds, fighting
for the inside.
It’s Bullets. It’s Rounds.
Bullets. Rounds.
It’s Murder coming up from the rear.
It’s Murder by a mile --
call it what it is.
Slave patrol jockeys,
chasing toe tag trophies, champagne
glassing the warrantless
race --warrantless,
as Kenny, cuffed to tears,
being marched down the barking streets.
Long after their shells
made me know rivers,
I feel my fingers
slip from the life raft of his hand. Grip
strength trumped
by cooling board tug, I
sink into hallway
floor, waterway now, timeless tributary
to slaughtered tides.
I see bayous teaming
with cotton gin fans,
Emmett beaten into death’s deep dive,
streams of Blands
and Bikos, in chilly
arrest of the wet. I see
oceans of Arberys, crossing with me,
swimming in crucified
schools — Valenzuela
and Boyd, numberless
Floyds, I see we are the sea — bottomless,
as our moans, that carry
like currents
of whale songs.
by points of lead,
firing through Kentucky’s
no-knock early morn,
singing lines of death from arias
of smoke, battering
ram timpani, an entourage
of one. One, subtracted
from the lover’s binary, Bluegrass
census ink, breath-
less as a choke.
In my crimson pose,
their plain-clothed hoofs still derby
through my door.
AND they’re off:
City of Bullets, out
quickly. Country of Rounds, fighting
for the inside.
It’s Bullets. It’s Rounds.
Bullets. Rounds.
It’s Murder coming up from the rear.
It’s Murder by a mile --
call it what it is.
Slave patrol jockeys,
chasing toe tag trophies, champagne
glassing the warrantless
race --warrantless,
as Kenny, cuffed to tears,
being marched down the barking streets.
Long after their shells
made me know rivers,
I feel my fingers
slip from the life raft of his hand. Grip
strength trumped
by cooling board tug, I
sink into hallway
floor, waterway now, timeless tributary
to slaughtered tides.
I see bayous teaming
with cotton gin fans,
Emmett beaten into death’s deep dive,
streams of Blands
and Bikos, in chilly
arrest of the wet. I see
oceans of Arberys, crossing with me,
swimming in crucified
schools — Valenzuela
and Boyd, numberless
Floyds, I see we are the sea — bottomless,
as our moans, that carry
like currents
of whale songs.
TRUTH THOMAS is a singer-songwriter and poet, born in Knoxville, Tennessee, raised in Washington, DC. His poetry collections include Party of Black (2006), A Day of Presence (2008), Bottle of Life (2010) and Speak Water (2012), winner of the 2013 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work in Poetry.
Prachi Valechha is a freelance cartoonist and animator from India. Valechha loves to make Toons and Toons for Tunes.
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
