What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature that explores experiences and ideas that spark the writing of new poems. In our fourth series, Object Lessons, poets meditate on the magical journey from object to poem via one of their own poems. Each Monday's delivery brings you the poem and an excerpt from the essay. 
Amaud Jamaul Johnson

for James Byrd
How these young white boys
keep smiling at me, but not
saying anything, as if a Byrd
is curled beneath their tongue.

*

I caught my twelve-year-old
staring out our front window
at the neighbors. What's on your
mind, I asked him. Betrayal.

*

The word Jasper means "speckled"
or "spotted rock." A rainbow,
a heliotrope, the stone of Babylon,
which traces back to Africa.

*

The deceased's family doesn't
believe in the death penalty.
Friends said death isn't enough,
eye for an eye, feet, legs, hands.

*

To humanize him, the defense
argues Mr. King was gang-raped
repeatedly by Black men in prison
when he was only fifteen.

*

The evidence: a button, a long
bloody chain, his cap. Of course,
a man in pieces, a lighter, one side
engraved "KKK," the other, "Possum."

*

Because of vandals, they had to build
a fence around the gravesite, padlock
the front doors of the church.
All these new ways people get hurt.

*

Those poems by white women
in the 1980s about violence, cruelty.
I don't get catcalled, but men lean
out windows, trying to guess my name.

*

I keep telling myself: They're gonna
get you because you are alone, Amaud:
Gonna get you because you're too old,
because you're too far from home.

*

But how can we defend ourselves
from our children and grandchildren?
How old was Dylann Roof, or the boy
in Louisiana, all those church burnings?

*

Maybe my grandparents were run
out of Texas, but they stayed country.
And they ended up raising their family
in the murder capital of the world.
from the journal THE SOUTHERN REVIEW
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What Sparks Poetry:
Amaud Jamaul Johnson on “Possum Dead”

"I’m not that old, but I’ve lived long enough to know that the lion’s share of my life is behind me. I know there are relationships I can’t hold on to, and places I can’t return to. I’m just beginning to see “real time,” the arc of almost half a century, and how the generational waves, both violent and beautiful, define our species."
READ THIS WEEK'S ISSUE
"A World Champion Slam Poet Pivots To Medicine"

"Poetry is also a way to carry on her Sudanese heritage. 'I come from a place where the history is based on oral tradition, my tribal tongue isn’t written, everything is passed down from person to person,' Mahmoud says. 'That’s why that’s why I write about it so much. I write about it because I’m terrified of forgetting.'"
 
via WAMU
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