Why did I come here?
In memory of Patrick Lyola
By Karla Brundage
Why did I come here
A bereft father asks
of the golden
Streets
Now paved red
Iced over crimson
Closed curtains
A picket fence
Lawn that witnesses
Bloodshed
Black ice
Tapestry of footprints
Grass reveals imprint of
Descried body
A spirit lingers in the
Crevices of white walls
From window cameras peek
No one speaks
After living in Cote d'Ivoire for three years I understand the complex and convoluted allure of the American Dream. The story of Patrick Lyola moved me to reflect on the many students I have taught in Zimbabwe, Côte d'Ivoire, Ghana, and Tanzania whose only dream was to escape to the U.S. I often reflect on the pervasiveness of western media and how it creates a false image to worship of the Democracy not so readily available and accessible to all. After watching the footage of the murder of Patrick Lyola as well as reading his father's words, I wrote this poem about the invisible witnesses to violence in the U.S.
In memory of Patrick Lyola
By Karla Brundage
Why did I come here
A bereft father asks
of the golden
Streets
Now paved red
Iced over crimson
Closed curtains
A picket fence
Lawn that witnesses
Bloodshed
Black ice
Tapestry of footprints
Grass reveals imprint of
Descried body
A spirit lingers in the
Crevices of white walls
From window cameras peek
No one speaks
After living in Cote d'Ivoire for three years I understand the complex and convoluted allure of the American Dream. The story of Patrick Lyola moved me to reflect on the many students I have taught in Zimbabwe, Côte d'Ivoire, Ghana, and Tanzania whose only dream was to escape to the U.S. I often reflect on the pervasiveness of western media and how it creates a false image to worship of the Democracy not so readily available and accessible to all. After watching the footage of the murder of Patrick Lyola as well as reading his father's words, I wrote this poem about the invisible witnesses to violence in the U.S.
|
|