by Evie Shockley
i don’t know what’s after
death, but i do know my
ancestors. and if what comes next
wasn’t better than this
mess, we’d have heard about it. there’d
be some half-embodied, half-
spectral stank attitude
up in the kitchen or on the front
stoop, and wouldn’t nobody
get no rest, let alone peace. if what
comes next didn’t outstrip
this world for beauty, there’d be
some gangster grievances
to deal with. you think not
harriet tubman nor tupac shakur
would have something to say?
you figure neither ella fitzgerald
nor ella baker would sound
off ? do you really believe
that malcolm wouldn’t have the means
necessary to let folks know
if he found things unacceptable
at the other end of his transition?
we’d be minding our own business,
and suddenly
a voice carrying 30-odd years of hell-no
and 3 continents of you-gots-to-be-
kidding-me would be all SING, MUSE,
OF THE WRATH OF A PHILLIS, pentameting
all over your i-ams. young emmett
would turn up everywhere we look,
kicked back and whistling dixie
from under that cocked fedora
in a very minor key. we’d have ida b. wells
and june jordan reporting
on the universe’s dirty drawers, leaving no
question unasked and no record
unread. mlk would give book,
chapter, and verse on the meaning of promised
land. du bois would loosen his cravat,
morrison would release her death stare,
and you’d know it was on. look,
i don’t have the goods
on what comes after death. another pass
at a planet that’s still more forest
than concrete? a voyage
into dark matter with a chance
to send our atoms back
as rainfall or baby’s breath? a party
hosted on the soular plane
by duke ellington, prince, and ntozake
shange? maybe a front-row seat
for viewing the human animal
finally getting ready to evolve? hey,
someday we’ll all get
the dirt. but rest assured, if it wasn’t better
than this ish, i’d have already gotten
word.
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