XLV. For Akilah (ii)
Missed Connections in Manhattan
“It goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes…”
– Death Grips
Akilah, it’s been a while since I thought of you. Now
Listening to Patti Smith at 4:41 AM Monday August 12 2013,
You died on February 20, 2011 (my god my brother’s birthday) in Fort Green of a heart attack.
Years of your life a footnote to your son’s death at King/Drew on March 12 2003 of gastrointestinal blockage.
(You asked me to write something for Oluchi, and I never did.)
I read the first poem I ever wrote you and it still stings.
Gabe told you you were a bad mother he never saw how much Oluchi loved you.
Gabe, who wanted to be the center of every life and own it like a needle,
Gabe, who can drop dead for all I care,
But Akilah…
Did you ever see your son steal a keg from a frat party?
Or kick out the back window of a police car?
The white men who told him he wasn’t allowed to be in a small white town
Felt the wrath of his love,
And the weight fell on you.
Akilah, I’m imagining…
Akilah, the last years, and
Akilah, I can’t, don’t want to go there.
Did your son ever say to you, “It’s not fair,”
And Akilah: I know, baby, I know.
Her Two Cents
Piss Factory was the first Patti Smith song I ever heard and its story of work, turmoil, poverty and dreams has stayed with me throughout the years. I wonder about Akilah and Gabe. I wonder how they faced the soul-crushing, stifling world that stared them in the face and conspired to keep them subservient forever. Did they ever dream of leaving? Of traveling light with no return?
