I can’t shake this feeling, this heaviness about Haiti.

This poem communicates how I feel.

lorried humans
black life a game of numbers
dying as a person
a privilege of death in
temperate
climates
every american soldier comes home
a flag flies on him
a brazen show of belonging
black flesh comes dumped
back in the sea they came from
osnabrucker shrouds them, again.

haiti: what does it mean that we see and see and see dead black flesh
carried away by dumpster trucks, and hear and hear and hear white
people talking on cnn about the historical lack of infrastructure in
haiti that does not enable decent burial procedures that allow people
to know if and where and how their loved ones died?

sabine broeck

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