Matthew E. Henry

an open letter to the school resource officer who almost shot me in my class

was it the loud noises which drew your attention,
commotion you couldn’t process fourteen months
from Afghanistan? a threat too quickly assessed
through the two by three window of my classroom door?
was it my brown arms gesturing wildly, or my beard—
long and unkempt— which obscured thick lips
releasing a language you couldn’t easily decipher
(aggarwayter. pillory. Defarge.). was that what triggered
rules of engagement normally absent halls so affluent?
did i seem out of place? did you not notice my shirt and tie.
the matching slacks, socks, and shoes. could you not see
the books open beneath mostly white faces? the smiles
which faltered with your entrance? many missed
your sidearm’s slide back to safety as you stumbled
to silence when asked if i could help you. the two
who share my skin saw everything. made eye contact.
held it for two solid seconds. the next day they took
to calling me “almost Tamir,” while your near-miss
story was met with laughter in your squad room.

an open letter to the poetry editor of [name withheld on advice from counsel]

please don’t revise my poem to make my Blackness
worthy of dating your daughter—inoffensive and less centered
in ways that make you clutch the pearls and purse
you thought it was eyeing. don’t evict its diction—
tear down and rebuild—so you can sublet my stanzas
for artisanal mayonnaise. this isn’t Brooklyn. though
you’ve worked with Rankine and Hayes, Clifton and Kaur,
Willis-Abdurraquib and Walker, your suggested title
almost made me wonder if you have hooded sheets.
yes, I meant axed and aight, just as much as I intended
antediluvian and assiduous. I’m sorry, but your cute anecdote
about Representative Lewis won’t replace my allusion
to Huey P. Newton. and those final images are “stark”
and “disquieting” because I lived them. my immigrant mother
lived them. my student—a raisin floating in a bowl of milk—
lives them. every day. look, I know what my piece was wearing
when she left the house—she was appropriately dressed
for the occasion and did not need to slip into something
you would find more comfortable. but thanks for the feedback.
p.s. the white woman in line 29 was not the hero.


“…and who is my neighbor?”

Jesus replied,
“a man was going down from [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] to [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] unarmed,
and fell into the hands of officers, who stopped him for
[insert _____-ing while Black reason]. they shot him,
stood above his leaking body, and left him for dead.

now, by chance, a white man [Evangelical]
was going down his Twitter feed.
and when he saw him, he scrolled quickly past
saying, #BlueLivesMatter.

likewise, a white woman [Presbyterian]
came to the place on her Facebook feed.
she saw him and scrolled quickly past
saying, #AllLivesMatter.

but when [insert the least expected] saw him,
they came near. moved with pity and outrage,
they went to the dead man’s family
to bandage their wounds, pouring action
and appropriate silence as compassion.
they put the burdens on their backs,
addressed them as they were able.

the next day they had not forgotten,
but took two friends and encouraged them
to more than march or hashtag the moment,
saying, ‘we will continue the Work together.
be not afraid: the Lord will repay
whatever social capital we spend.’”

then Jesus asked,
“which of these three was a neighbor
to the man who fell into unholy hands?”
the [insert an asshole “playing devil’s advocate”] said,
“the one who acknowledged his dignity.”

and Jesus replied,
“now go, and do likewise.”

“an open letter to the school resource officer who almost shot me in my class” previously published (print) in Gravitas (Volume 18, Issue 2), and is included in the forthcoming chapbook Teaching While Black (Main Street Rag Publishing Co).