Millard Lowe Poet Prose Poetry

A Requiem For Hands Free At Last

A REQUIEM FOR HANDS FREE AT LAST

“Oh death where is thy sting; 
Oh grave where is thy victory?”

Death’s stinging victory
is alive and well
in this land of Black America—
My country’s tears
from you and me swelling
rivers of flowing grief—self evidence 
that the only democracy Blacks will see
is in the equanimity of death—Death,
the common denominator
ensuring freedom at last in the streets
of home.

Where we were once invisible,
today it’s only our hands—
Hands no longer to rock cradles
Stilled in juxtaposition to the graves
of those indeed free at last;
hands no longer to embrace
in giving hugs of love—
Hands no longer to clasp
in prayers of thanksgiving.  

Now we must ever ponder
taking care in what we wish
in question as we sojourn the streets
of life in the home of the brave 
and the land of the free.

“Give me liberty or give me death…”
has gained a pre-ordained response:
Affirmative in the ‘or’—Assuring
freedom at last—Death makes
no distinctions—At least hands-wise.

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