Because I Do Not Want to Be Complicit

by Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman

 
I write this poem 
because my spoken words 
will disappear soon, 
and this poem will be 
my paper trail, 
 
my public dissent, 
my scream 
and shout 
pushing incessantly 
through my stapled lips
 
I write this poem 
as I watch the soaking 
of my tax dollars 
in the blood of  
humans fleeing for their lives 
 
because of decade-long lies 
of fabricated entitlement and  
xenophobic indoctrination 
and because my arms 
are not long enough,
 
my voice is not strong enough
to catch a bomb and 
toss it back to sender. I cannot 
swallow a vulgar sniper’s bullet,
nor toss aside a grim reaper wearing 
helicopters from strings that hover and drop death,
 
I write this poem
wearing skin and muscle,
nerves that sometimes stop working. 
Useless tears 
that cannot even send water.
 
I write this poem 
with hopelessness that feels stiff 
and jagged, a useless shank 
that cannot find the artery 
that keeps giving life to an uneven deading. 
 
A war with only one side 
with weapons. Only one side with honor. 
With morals and courage 
even when there is no food 
nor shelter from a falling sky.
 
I write this poem 
to an immoral war, a treacherous 
massacre that is funded by 
my helplessness, mocking 
my paralyzed intention each day as it slaughters children without pause.
 
I write this poem 
as it laminates October 7th 
as a death date, circles it on its calendar, 
chugging its beer, sliding stolen olives 
down its gluttonous throat, 
 
designing its future that will stand 
on the graves of martyrs, sleeping in 
beachfront settlements built on 
pristine sands as bodies are swept away 
trying to make us forget again where the demons dwell.
 
I write this poem 
blinded by fury, unable to see 
through the smoke. Trying to see 
if there is a future 
and wonder where in it I will stand.
 
The world has watched death before, 
seen the very end of days 
for George, Sonya and Oscar. Heard it come for Trayvon. 
Saw the bombs drop on 6221 Osage Avenue. 
And, there were no poems to save them. 
 
No words to drape over the flowing blood 
and bodies of  murdered children 
and youth who did not realize 
their morning smile would be their last.
No poems to scream at Black folk 
 
to remind us that Palestine is our mirror, 
a forecast of our later,
a dusting of our now, 
a barometer of our yesterday. 
I write this poem to acknowledge that. 
 
I write this poem 
to acknowledge that my solidarity 
lies in the trauma and disrupted nervous system 
that knows no rest. 
Has received no apology.
 
I write this poem 
as another casualty 
on the other side of the world 
who has not chosen death 
but is forced every day to be complicit in its making.
 

Khadijah Ali-Coleman is author of the poetry collections For the Girls Who Do Too Much (2024), and The Summoning of Black Joy (2023), the children’s book Mariah’s Maracas and co-editor of the book Homeschooling Black Children in the US: Theory, Practice and Popular Culture. Her work is featured in multiple publications, and she is currently editing the book, Homeschooling Black Children on a College Pathway that is scheduled to be released in 2025 by Black Family Homeschool Educators and Scholars, LLC (BFHES). She is currently an Associate Professor in English at Coppin State University and served from 2023-2025 as the second poet laureate of Prince George’s County, MD. She is currently based in Baltimore, MD.