Marching Up the Hill, Then Down Back
A Poem by Eaton Jackson
To fit into the small of the back like
a backpack,
hopping downstairs
undone hair
untied sneakers lace
to join up with others
in righteous cause snaking along the streets,
flags, burning other flags,
flags stuck in metaphors,
setting ablaze other flammable things,
and from that vicarious place,
a cacophony of
good over evil, evil better that good,
tightening straps of backpack
assemblage up to moral high ground,
shrill indignation,
of a child as prodigious as Greta Thunberg,
shrill as the ripping of clothes
dumping ashes on self,
marching like Martin’s March
for the same bodies too tiresome to bury,
to march in precision to march in chaos
to march for the wrong color’s cause
to march against granite,
to march because facts
that no depth can cover,
to march under the rain of sweat
along the lines demarcated,
to march with controlled anger with uncontrolled ethos
to march no commercials breaks
no watching from safe harbor of living rooms
sunburnt faces kindred spirits
for the ones unburied
deep, beyond metal detectors.
marching again.
anger. shrapnel. Can’t swallow it this time,
mouth is filled with choking
from the effort to control
unburied dead feelings,
to march again and feel
the Tsunami birthing itself from tears.
My name is Eaton Jackson. I am a Jamaican, American citizen. I have been writing for most of my adult life. My middle-aged years still have me aspiring to be read and in so doing, found worthy of publication. This space that you have provided, I take it upon myself to interpret, as an avenue for writers of diverse background. My poems have been published in several print and online publications , including Tuck magazine, The New Verse News, Scarlet Review, Querencia, and Passage journal.
