It's funny.
Angel was talking about form.
So when I talk to my students about form,
it's sometimes, if you have something
you want to write about that is emotionally prohibitive
or something and you grasp on to a form
and you find yourself paying attention to the form,
it takes your mind away from a lot of the narrative.
You're counting.
You're doing things.
You're rhyming.
And then you're kind of surprised by what comes up.
So this is it's a sestina without the bottom three lines.
I love being able to talk to audiences.
Most of the time, I'll say something, like,
what's a sestina?
So this is for Sandra Bland.
But I love looking for unexpected entry points.
So this is one of her captors.
"Free To Go."
I'm not wondering how I'll finish her.
I'm sorry.
I'm not wondering if I'll finish her, but how.
All her unloosed buck and bluster
upset the bland ritual of privilege,
challenged my power to crush her rampant clench and stink.
That girl's damn mouth just won't stop.
Even my best backhand won't shut it.
Just tell me what's happening, she howls.
Can you hold here like this?
I'm thinking, maybe a choke hold.
Once her air goes, that whore will remember just
how the world works.
Once those pickaninny eyes pop, it
will be well worth the line I'll have
to do, my bland, by-the-book monotone stifling the laugh.
That mouth of hers--
why don't she know this-- has no power over where this day is
bound to go, no power to crack the jailhouse lock or loose
the stranglehold that soon will bring her to her knees.
No nigger mouth-- for the last time, girl, quiet down--
can tell me how to divvy up my justice, a justice that's
blind and deaf too when it works this room.
Justice swears it doesn't hear her snotty weep and thrash.
It ignores her sloppy rollic.
I've got the power of her throat in my hand.
I can light this bland sunless day up with hurt.
She's on the blue threshold of never seeing her home.
It's hilarious how her screeching suddenly
stops and her nasty mouth twists with the realizing.
That foul reckless mouth turns oh so greedily to God.
She sees it so clear now, the tired body being
appraised, how her captor falls in ugly love
with the power of a hiss in her direction.
And I can hold her down with bright lies of mercy,
with practiced bland promises of air.
Unfortunately, Miss Bland will be leaving us soon.
Her hair, her chest, her mouth, and, yes, her neck
are guilty of nothing.
I hold the cell door open.
I bow and wait until it's clear that she's already home.
I power up the Kodak.
And I click, propping her up somehow.