Poetry for reflecting today. I’m traveling to Taiwan tonight, my motherland, to see family and friends. I am fortunate for now for relatively unencumbered freedom of movement, something my Brown friends don’t have the privilege of doing. Something to ponder on and think of how you can weaponize your privilege in the struggle.
Autopsy Last night, I dreamed that my passport bled. I dreamed that my passport was a tombstone For our United States, recently dead. I dreamed that my passport was made of bone— That it was a canoe carved out of stone. “But I can’t swim,” I said. “I will drown If I can’t make the shore. I’ll die alone In the salt. No, my body will be found With millions of bodies, all of them brown.” I dreamed that my passport was a book of prayers, Unanswered by the gods, but written down By fact checkers in suits. “There are some errors In your papers,” they said. Then took me downstairs To a room with fingernails on the floor. I dreamed that my passport was my keyware, But soldiers had set fire to the doors, To all doors—a conflagration of doors. I dreamed that my passport was my priest: “Sherman, will you battle the carnivores Or will you turn and abandon the weak? Will you be shelter? Or will you concede?” Last night, I dreamed that my passport was alive When it entered the ICU. It breathed, it breathed, Then it sighed and closed its eyes. It did not survive. ©2017, Sherman Alexie