JETÉ FROM A BIRMINGHAM JAIL

My pencil’s lead, pirouettes, swirling above the pores of stage-skin,
dripping a shell of galvanized lead-wire rope,
Soaking, weighing, 
sagging…
my muscle fibers.

I strain against these wires
to hoist into,
More lead.

Today, my shackled hand, port de bras.

Leadened, refusing épaulement.

Body crying, battement
lent.

The stillness — not from metal,
but from injustice.

See, injustice wraps around my leaden hand,
squeezing, compacting, compressing.
Purpling, bruising, leaking black blood.

Pain whispers a sweet lie:
“Your talent will determine my departure…”
I keep listening. I keep writing.

The pen is mightier than the sword.
But the inks running out.
The pens getting duller…
Sword becomes lighter… Quicker… Sharper. 

Sometimes it can kill that quiet lie that injustice loves to tell,
that lie of civility, of humanity, of peace.
And with no lies to tell —

may even kill injustice itself.

I — Jeté — my weapon.