When people vanish
into the bulk of the forest
to be found but pallid bodies,
newly untenanted and strewn like
molt across autumn’s recent leavings,
any hint of comfort comes only
in knowing that nature’s to blame,
that there is no culpable face
or name out there
When the night
unleashes the fiends
nurtured in its murk, looses
lurkers and lapdogs on somebody’s
beloved, aura the woeful color of chalk,
the only solace comes in holding to
what we’re told about badges
too sterling to be false:
no crime goes
when Trayvon Martin slipped into a gutter
grown dark with the stake of ancestral struggles,
his chest a mess of violence and lament,
there was no luxury of natural causes,
no faultless mishap that tore Trayvon’s
hoodied torso like paper.
No swift recompense descending
in flurries of red and blue to prove
Lady Justice’s blindfold
or balance out her scales.
Trayvon hit the pavement, chest
with a Zorro-wannabe’s signature
for skin too many shades south of right.
for betting it’d just stay a fight.
Regardless of the reason
Zimmerman shot him that night,
Trayvon hit the pavement,
and he's been bleeding ever since.