How are they Stephen
—Kelyan, Daejaun
all the black British boys
stabbed, knifed to death
on the bus; at the bus stop
like you were, just yesterday?
How are you, Stephen—
with these black British boys—you—
still being delivered up by the bus stop
and knives, into the hands of hate
the force, by whose default
do we associate with black?
When they arrived at heaven’s gate
or gateway of wherever you are, Stephen
did you shake your head
angered, insulted
despondent by the constant repetition
insistence on black boy stagnation?
Knowing you—your big, soft heart
—each new death, like yours
destroys
but still, I bet you roll up your angel’s garb
lay your angel’s hands
on their machete, ninja sword
zombie, whatever-knife’s-in-style
-inflicted heart-soul-affected wounds
and heal them.
Who healed you, Stephen?
It is true, their deaths bring me to you
stabbed, murdered
at a bus stop, South East London
and it always, always is yesterday—
the day on which they kill you.
We’re walking in circles Stephen
and I am numb today, like yesterday
when they killed you.
It is still yesterday; always yesterday
and they keep killing you Stephen
Kelyan, Daejaun, Menelik—
black boys on the bus, at the bus stop
in London, Kingston, everywhere
anywhere in the world black boys are.
What answers, like basil, rosemary, sage
wisdom bush, have you gathered, Stephen
up there in heaven; wherever you are?
What message can you send
to those left with pin-pricked hearts
broken glass for memories, spilt fucking milk.
Forgive me Stephen, I never heard you swear
in the too-brief-time I knew you
in that one glorious summer
when, I wish I could say
all the world was young
but it wasn’t:
the damn bursts and floods;
the cup overflows, it is too much.
It never stops—too many boys
from London to Kingston
knifed, killed, whichever way
at bus stops.
But you, with your sweet, angel smile
doe-almond eyes, on this hate-ridden earth
never let it show, if it ever was too much.
And now you’ve got wings Stephen
and we’re mostly all, still here—earthbound
without your smile; without your eyes
but they, they’ve got you, right?
Kelyan, Daejaun, Menelik—all
the fallen Black boys
stabbed, knifed to death at bus stops.
And we live in a yesterday-today
in which they keep killing you Stephen.
Used with the permission of the author.