I’ve never read a more visceral poem in my life. It made me feel so many emotions at once. “Power” by Audre Lorde is the first poem to ever make me cry; like, full on ugly cry. The first time I read it, I had no idea it was about a specific incident dating back to the 1970s. It is about the unjust and unnecessary shooting of a ten-year-old black boy by a white cop.
His name is Clifford Glover. He was shot in the back on April 28, 1973 by an undercover cop as he was running from him. This murder took place in Jamacia, Queens, and it absolutely shook the community; especially when the officer that shot him did not get charged with murder. His family was vilified and his parents were urged to keep quiet about the murder of their son.
An audio recording of the cop who shot him came to light during the case. The officer was heard saying, “Die, you little n-word” before he shot Glover down. The fact that this did not make the jury find the officer guilty blows my mind. It showed malicious intent, undoubtedly, and Audre Lorde’s poem showcases this.
The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.
I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.
A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn’t notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.
Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.
I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody’s mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”
Police brutality is such a prevalent issue today. We hear about shootings almost weekly, and it is getting to the point where many people are desensitized to it. It has become a norm and it should not be one at all. I hope in the next coming years it comes to an end, but we can only hope, rally, continue to spark change in legislation, and continue to strive to dismantle and rebuild the system in which police departments operate. If we wait for them to do it themselves, we will never see change.