My friend, the talented Rachael Hudak, has written a poignant poem based on the theme of what we all “miss” (in our neighborhoods, in our communities, and in our lives) as a result of the epidemic of mass incarceration. Rachael works at the Neighborhood Writing Alliance and facilitated a workshop this week based on a project that we are both involved in called “The Missing.”

what’s missing
by Rachael Hudak

in the last letter he wrote to me, Martin told me to
slow down
everything in the prison was starting to burst
into anger and he needed his friends on the outside to
keep peace

I’ve been thinking about how to keep peace
when there are so many pieces
missing from the whole
so many lives thrown into holes
wells dug so deep
that I can’t even dream of the day they all dry up

what is missing is
the ability to pick up the phone and call my friends
on their birthday
when they are dying
when I miss them
the ability to make them a handmade card
(the glue on the page questioned as a vehicle for drugs)
bring them soup when they are sick
hug them for longer than three breaths

what is missing is
Shaneka’s bond with her baby, taken from her three days after birth
what is missing is
Martin’s honeymoon with his wife after thirty years of love
what is missing is
the freedom to use a roll of scotch tape to patch things back together
(one piece at a time from a guard
more than one could be melted and shaped into a shank)
what is missing is
open spaces where I can talk about how much I miss Kinnari
who was deported back to India after serving 11 years
for defending her body against sexual assault
what is missing is
open spaces where we can talk about
how bad it hurts to have friends and family
in prison
who we can’t visit
who we can’t call
who we love and
miss

fathers and mothers
and so many black and brown fathers
so many women
and so many babies who have grown up to be women
and so many babies who have grown up to be men
without their black and brown mothers
without their black and brown fathers
and white men and women
and poor men and women,
so many without money
locked away without enough to their name
to make a phone call
(in Chicago it costs $7 to make a 15 minute call)
I miss them in this city
I write poems every day
about how to keep peace in my heart
while this war eats my people

Martin, I miss you
Kinnari, I miss you
Jamal, I miss you
Phil, I miss you
Lala, I miss you
Shawn, I miss you
and for so many friends I have not named
those who wake and breathe dreaming of streets
that welcome them home
and a place at the table with food that steams the words
eat, you deserve to be nourished
I love you
I miss you