Two Poems by Tara Menon
Eight Minutes and Forty-Six Seconds
George Floyd looms on our minds
on the day of his funeral.
We space ourselves six feet apart,
armed with placards.
One pair of hands shakes maracas.
We are rows of masked protesters,
wearing dark clothes,
standing on either side of the road,
waving to the drivers,
most of whom support us with honks,
thumbs-up, and peace signs.
History leaks into our streets,
whether we like it or not in Lexington.
Now we fight not the British
but their legacy of white supremacy,
that led to this moment when we clamor for change,
without the hoof beats of Paul Revere’s horse
or the lights from the lanterns in the Old North Church.
Our neighborhood is now blessed with
different colors, but we only see our humanity.
We are careful not to get close to each other,
weary of touching anything in our surroundings,
but George Floyd survived the pandemic,
only to be killed by bigotry,
a disease that suffocates the victim
in eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
I Can’t Breathe
George Floyd’s name rolls off my tongue effortlessly.
My heart accelerates at the injustice of racial inequality.
The video replays in my mind –
the disturbing images flash,
the knee pressing against the beautiful ebony neck,
the man calling for his mother,
the brutality unleashed by the police officers.
Eight minutes forty-six seconds of
I can’t breathe.
The world watched, the world held their breaths,
the world chanted I can’t breathe.
It took many black deaths to reach this point,
this tipping point.
Most of us wore blinders through the centuries,
but now wearing our masks or not wearing them,
we surge in seas to unmask the prejudices.
We can’t slide back again into the old world.
