Freedom is not a day

A poem for Juneteenth

Who claps for the bird in the cage?
Who kills the bird with his bare hands,
then denies it, choking on feathers 
and bones? Who opens the metal door 
and demands applause for releasing
what has already been slaughtered? 

Freedom is not a day. Restoration 
of liberty is not a celebration. It’s a time 
to fall to our knees, to realize the hard 
ground we are kneeling on is made of ash 
and bones, the hour to hold up the bones 
and confront them one by one: a finger, 
a foot, a rib. Here was a body, a life. 
Now is the moment to stare shame 
straight in the eye and name it. 

Freedom is not a day, not state of mind, 
not even an open door. It is blood written 
on the body. A taser in the shape of a gun.
The consequences of a knee on a neck. 
Freedom is a concept so devastating 
we need a name for it, a word for something 
as basic as breathing, something that springs 
into being only when it has been taken away. 

You cannot paste the gentle feathers back
onto a broken bird. It does not matter if 
it did not die by your own hand. It does not 
matter if you unlocked the cell yourself. 
The only way forward is to to beg 
forgiveness, make restitution, pray 
for wisdom, actually crush the cage.

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem was inspired by a comment at the annual Juneteenth Community Builders Banquet in Des Moines, Iowa, where audience members were reminded this holiday is not really a celebration. Neither the Emancipation Proclamation or this particular announcement of it truly ended the legacy of slavery in the United States. Juneteenth is a time to remember the past, honor those who have fought for freedom, and continue to push for equality and equity. 

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