I am finding it difficult to shake myself out of this funk. When I get like this (and it is rare), I usually take comfort in losing myself in other people’s words. I hold on to poetry like it is a life raft. I seek solace in other people’s words. When one reads Carolyn Rodgers for example, it is impossible not to believe in the healing power of art:

i am lonely
all the people i know
i know too well

I spent a sleepless night yesterday. This isn’t out of the ordinary for me. But I could not stop thinking about black men – those in my life and the others who are strangers to me.

I started writing in my journal and found that the well is dry. I couldn’t muster any eloquent or poignant or loving words. Perhaps that should not be a surprise. As I gave up on the idea of writing, I picked up my copy of Audre Lorde’s “The Black Unicorn” off my shelf. It is one of my favorite collection of poems. I return to it regularly. Early this morning, I had the urge to read it again. As I flipped through the book, I came upon “Eulogy for Alvin Frost.”

There it was — these were the words that I had been searching for. Audre had captured my emotions perfectly. I decided to borrow her tongue. I am going to do something blasphemous and quote excerpts from the poem. If you have the inclination though, I strongly recommend that you read the entire poem. It is exquisite.

“Eulogy for Alvin Frost” opens with these words:

Black men bleeding to death inside themselves
inside their fine strong bodies
inside their stomachs
inside their heads
a hole
as large as a dum-dum bullet
eaten away from the inside
death at 37.

[…]

I don’t want to write a natural poem
I want to write about the unnatural death
of a young man at 37
eating himself for courage in secret
until he vanished
bleeding to death inside.

[…]

I am tired of writing memorials to black men
whom I was on the brink of knowing
weary like fig trees
weighted like a crepe myrtle
with all the black substance poured into earth
before earth is ready to bear.
I am tired of holy deaths
of the ulcerous illuminations the cerebral accidents
the psychology of the oppressed
where mental health is the ability
to repress
knowledge of the world’s cruelty.

The poem ends with words of comfort for Alvin Frost’s surviving son:

Dear Danny who does not know me
I am
writing to you for your father
whom I barely knew
except at meetings where he was
distinguished
by his genuine laughter
and his bright words
Danny son of Alvin
please cry
whenever it hurts
remember to laugh
even when you do battle
stay away from coffee and fried plastic
even when it looks like chicken
and grow up
Black and strong and beautiful
but not too soon.

We need you
and there are so few
left.

As I think about an appropriate tribute for my neighbor’s son, I dedicate these words to him and to all of the black men in my life.