Poetry by Matt Pasca
i folded hand towels in the warehouse & lived
for 15-minute breaks on a bench behind the timex
counter, inhaling your words (as told to alex haley)
what i needed, really, was a role model
someone to help me own the strange
species i’d become box after cardboard
box i pondered your father’s death
the burning cross, your mother’s flight
into wallpaper another break, your 7th grade
teacher’s swordmouth, the smoke of boston
juke joints, prison, your journey from aardvark
to zyzzyva, like mine from page 1
to 460 (including the eulogy) your death
malcolm, i was not—am still not—
okay with it & who am i
to say this but a trifling teen who punched out
every wednesday night the summer of 1990
& wept by the shopping carts in a darkened lot?
did you know who waved that harlem
afternoon aside & frowned your mortality into view?
why did you stand before folding chairs made of triggers?
gallows with a microphone? almost 60 years on & still
the only violent thing about you was your end
your calm logic revealed their poison
cracked their lies open like pearlless oysters
your only fury was loving black bodies
i return often to your whipclear words, wander
the fields of your sibilance, correct my posture
as if you were my father, your hand across
my back, unbuckling my grief like a holster
your red beard & bent knees on egyptian
carpet, your mosque-low supplication—
the powder in their guns knew you were right
& we’ve spent too many years unlit by your fresnel
sight, so much pain run aground
you died before they were ready
for your prophetic speeches, analogies detonating
decades after being wired i get it
you were tired of living wired & certainly
you never owed me anything, but gave me
discipline, devotion & resilience nonetheless
even your martyrdom taught me the senselessness
of martyrdom i would love to have
met you, have my redheads shake
your hand, joke about them getting it f
rom you, the grandfather i chose for them
while folding washcloths. i am waiting
for your star on our flag, your holiday
your face on the national postcard
so that i might call myself, for once, american
Published 21st June, 2023.
MATT PASCA is a poet, teacher and traveler who believes in art’s ability to foster discovery, empathy and justice. He has authored two poetry collections—A Thousand Doors (2011 Pushcart nominee) & Raven Wire (2017 Eric Hoffer Book Award Finalist)—and had work published in over 50 journals and magazines. Matt served as Assistant Poetry Editor of 2 Bridges Review and was named 2022 Long Island Poet of the Year by the Walt Whitman Birthplace Association. A 2003 New York State Teacher of Excellence, Matt has taught English to high school seniors since 1997. www.mattpasca.com