In Sanford they said it was the back`of a head & then
that it was a grey hooded man with candy to share;
In Brooklyn it took six more bullets after the first for Kimani
known in Africa as sweet and beautiful; Nineteen in Pasadena
for college brought death too for Kendrec as it did for Timothy
in Bed-Stuy; in Cleveland it took one hundred and thirty-seven
bullets to bring down a Black man & two for a boy & who,
I ask, was the caller who unleashed the dogs of the dog
on a twelve year old their anonymity sacred still—
For a brother in Atlanta it was he, not the sister he
was saving, that died, & in New York City the butchers
planted forty-one bullets in Amadou Amadou Amadou
for the audacity of having a wallet; in that same
city of sin an altar-boy went down for the affront of
not having marijuana to sell to the bastards &, I ask,
how many millions would his daughters return
for his life, how many for Ousman lying dead not
far from there; no wedding for Sean Bell fifty bullets
for the guts to have a bachelor party
& friends, for a 11-0 pitching arm, a daughter, Jada,
skills, a life, a woman waiting this is New York man!
but we have the name of the Black uniform that called fire
down on a Black son it’s okay to hate him go ahead do it do it;
for Orlando on his knees & the two-legged K-9s
who shot him for a notch in their baby-daddy take-down;
in Oakland Oscar lay face down obliging to be killed with ease;
they paid 1.2 mil to a mother for her child walking backward
arms locked behind a head she had cradled once in time before
in Portlandia scene of white dreams; like Pensacola where Victor
rode a bicycle at seventeen so they rode over his body and
it was a threat to the state to be Black & autistic in LA, to be
Steven & hot in Denver splashing water on your face, to be strong
if you are Black at a zoo the water-fountain is still segregated
didn’t you know Alonzo didn’t you know?& Ramarley weed
is not for you in your grandmother’s Bronx home, not for you either
Wendell, it is for the fortunate few whose skin looks
nothing like yours their lives nothing like yours even in
your own house; what does it matter in New Orleans, a house,
a bridge, Danzinger in New Orleans, James & Ronald they
said it was uncivil but not a crime, it is never a crime when
you die; should I begin from the beginning should I add the women,
Renisha, Rekia, Chantel, Tyisha, Yvette, Gabriella, Miriam, Jessica
beauty-queen beautiful Tarika; & Aiyanna seven at home
with your blonde disney princesses and Pearlie you too,
to die this way at ninety-three and Kathryn you at nine-two
in your homes what had you done? It is always the same.
No crime was committed
No crime was committed
No crime was committed
I say your names
I say your names
I say your names
Ru Freeman is a Sri Lankan and American writer, poet, and activist whose work appears internationally in English and in translation. She is the author of the short-story collection, Sleeping Alone (2022), and the forthcoming essay collection, Bon Courage (2023) and the novels A Disobedient Girl (2009) and On Sal Mal Lane (2013), a New York Times Editor's Choice Book. She is the editor of the anthology, Extraordinary Rendition: American Writers on Palestine (2015) and co-editor of Indivisible: Global Leaders on Shared Security (2018). She writes for the UK Guardian, the New York Times, and the Boston Globe. She is a winner of the Mariella Gable Award for Fiction, and the JH Kafka Prize for Fiction by an American Woman. She teaches creative writing in the US and abroad, and is the Director of the Artists Network at Narrative 4.
Photo by Ru Freeman