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Martyred At the Lorraine
.
I can see Martin.
On that balcony.
.
Hosea. Jesse. Martin. Ralph.
.
But you will say,
my mind is playing tricks.
.
That was the night before,
right? Before
he gave that speech
to those garbage men,
.
going to Mason’s Chapel in pouring rain,
tired as he was.
.
Sure he would march.
But who would guess,
his final speech
.
would come in Memphis?
.
The baritone softly hums “Precious Lord,”
and he smiles.
.
Wrong again.
That was the day
.
it happened.
.
I can see Martin.
At that Negro motel.
.
He throws out his chest,
waves his hand as he speaks,
.
guffaws
into the nip of an April twilight,
perhaps picturing his “four little children”:
.
a robust man, he tells
of what he sees atop the mountain—
.
in the land beyond,. in the view.
.
“Oh! . . . ”
.
The bullet pierced its intended,
and Ralph gently cradled
Martin’s dying head. Who, now,
will choose redemption,
.
suffering—to implement the dream?
.
I see Martin carried.
From the Lorraine.
.
A widening pool of still-warm blood
turns brown.
.
taken from my thesis and Gathering the Broken Pieces (a winner of the Noble Award)
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