Looking at: Plate no. 4 “Homicide body of John Rogers W. 134th st., Christensen, October 21,1915, 88311 from EVIDENCE by Luc Sante

Im looking at
the properly dressed big black
hands of death
on the neat tile design
blood on footprints,
the shiny of shoes in corners
the stalwart jaw
of a witness.
Im looking at a century
inching into being
im looking at a photograph
of a black man
sixty five years after slavery-
lying on a floor dead-
hat dropped
like a felt
bomb-
round perfect boulder like it is
in 1915
everything
(nothing
had) happened yet-
give us time
thirty years
the hat
will drop on a little island
in a big city
give us time
and every river
is the seven of Hiroshima.
Im looking at the feet
pointed like poison
like the prince’s sword
to a picture
poured half full like
last nights red wine
the mother, Gertrude
on video tape
the ancient castle
of a drama
now a book report
for school.
The king got killed
in Memphis 1968
poison poured in his ear
by his brother.
Im looking at the square
corners
of a big mans jaw
gaped open the pointed
teeth of death ape-like
in the buck eyes
of permanent surprise
im looking at
the tiles turn to the
chain fence
the german shephard
of a dark afternoon
six million frozen
forever in
the dark nigger night
of the holocaust
blowing like the backhand
of god looking
at a photograph in
the comfortable overcoat
of an automobile moving
past the past
stuck in the rigor mortis
of one black mans body
in America with
his penis outside history
hanging in
the bad light
of magnolia
trees bent to the ground
with the sound
of hat
after velvet hat
crashing like tattoos
in time.

-Sapphire