MALCOLM by Sonia Sanchez

Do not speak to me of martydom of men who die to be remembered on some parish day.i don’t believe in dying though i too shall die and violets like castanets will echo me. yet this man this dreamer, thick-lipped with words will never speak again and in each winter when the cold air cracks with frost, i’ll breathe his breath and mourn my gun-filled nights. He was the sun that tagged the western sky and melted tiger-scholars while they searched for stripes. He said,”fuck you white man.we have been curled too long. Nothing is sacred now. Not your white face nor any land that separates until some voices squat with spasms.” Do not speak to me of living.Life is obscene with crowds of white on black.Death is my pulse.What might have been is not for him/or me,but what could have been floods the wombs until I drown.


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