Bending Till Broke

In times such as these, I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing or the right thing, but there is certain danger if I say nothing at all. I offer this poem as my attempt to stand with wobbly knees in truth that feels insufficient but true—my truth.
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​Bending Till Broke
 
If only I could . . .
Spin words into gauze to stop the bleeding
Make an antiseptic balm—call it Gilead
Mix an elixir that inoculates against hate
Call down a rhyme that heals black and blue
 
But I can’t . . .
No words, no balm, no elixir, no rhyme
Can’t stand my impotence, my fear
As I wrap myself in armor that protects
Me—disappearing you, the other
 
Safety for some, not for others
Lets me hide behind walls made for my kind
Created in monochrome—my birthright is white
The privilege of not looking
The presumption of naming without listening
 
Dr. King, the arc of history is too long
Bending, stretching on tenterhooks
Will it break? Who will be hurt?
Hearts beat and people march
Into the question without an answer
 
Crawl into the light, naked and unsure
Healing is not what I expect
Not scripted, sanitized or prescribed
Moving towards that which I seek to avoid
I am the patient—healing starts with me
 
David Fredrickson
July 15, 2016