CHARLESTON WEDNESDAY

I learned the news at 6:00am. I cried myself back to sleep for what seemed like forever.
I woke again at 7:00, tore myself from my tear soaked pillow, and tried to write a poem about it. But how do you write a poem about how history is a revolving door, spinning uncontrollably counter clockwise, repeating itself every so often.
I do not have the words for what happened, but I do have enough tears and rage to relay my message.
Charleston Wednesday smells a lot like Birmingham Sunday. Like black folks gathered round the church clapping, singing, and praying harder than fallen boulders on pavement.
This world outside is tough, but in these four walls we are safe. We've found community in speaking in tongues, in the First Lady's fancy church suits, and the way momma fanned sweat from her skin when the Holy Ghost reached down to touch her.

We are home now, in the Lord's house. There is no place I'd rather be.
There is a new face this Wednesday and we welcome him with opened arms as our families always taught us to do.

I wonder what happens next. This is where my words begin to disappear and I forget everything I've learned about writing poems before now. Haikus and sonnets vanish from my memory.

I do not know what happens next. I question whether he made an announcement, finished his prayer, or just opened fire. See I'm a writer, and I have a weird fascination with picturing everything that happens.
I picture the choir singing. Take Me To The King. Voices belting from bodies filled with love. I picture holding hands, strong embraces, tears and testimonies.
As much as I love imagery, I cannot picture bullets flying past the pulpit. I cannot picture pews becoming a safe house for little boys and girls on Wednesday night prayer. I cannot fathom how again, 52 years later, someone can walk again into the house of the Lord and turn praise into pleads for help.

I do not know what happened next. I do not know how families scavenged over blood, bodies, and bibles, and fans and fancy church hats trying to locate the limbs of their loved ones. I do not know if Take Me To The King is still playing faintly in the background.

I do not know how to end this poem.

I do not know how to transform what happened Charleston Wednesday and Birmingham Sunday into stanzas for your soul to feel.

So I close my book. I wipe tears, and snot, and oppression so strong it stings from my body.
I fall to my knees. I bend my head down to pray, sighing deeply because I am finally safe now.

And then I remember.