James Diaz
Unnameable
For the longest time
we wont give him a name
he will be called “That Man”
or “This One”
like a burgeoning hurricane
we’ll never know
who spotted him first
what to call
his particular danger
washing up on the shore
like poisoned letters
in a bottle
addressed to too many
vague fears
all at once
this wall was always an interior one
an impossible construction
whose fierce
overly demanding brick
I’d tear out with my soul
if I had hands
translucent enough
the hate that you store inside of yourself
can be your story for only so long
translations will shake out the fire
we’ll leave buckets of water
at your door step
in the dead of night
we’ll not mark our houses
we have no fear
of your angel of death
our love & resistance
will carry us so deep
into your storm
the seeds that we plant
will explode
inside of your chest
we will not give you a name
the story is ours
and our pens
are already in motion.
James Diaz, an activist and author, lives in upstate New York. His work has appeared in Ditch, Chronogram, Cheap Pop Lit, Foliate Oak, The Voices Project, Pismire, Epigraph, My Favorite Bullet, and Collective Exile. He is the founding editor of the literary arts magazine Anti-Heroin Chic.
This poem is not previously published.