ON THE DEDICATION OF BLACK BOY – a poem dedicated to my father, Richard Wright
when you dedicated
Black Boy
to my mother and me
writing
for Ellen and Julia
who live always in my heart
using a tense and a trust
that encompasses the present –
your heart was still young
and bravely beating
your heart was still young
and the very fact it could beat
was a feat
weakened as you had been
your whole childhood
by forced severance
and American Hunger
your heart was still young
but already scarred
your heart was still young
but ticking its days
and your heart did give way
way too early
when you were alone
in an alien sick room
in a climate of deceit
broke
with only eight hundred dollars
to your name
i know it
because i have that last bank receipt
and when your heart gave way
where did that leave us –
my mother and me
who had been dwelling
in its loving protective hold
a mutiny ship unto ourselves?
where did that leave us?
when my mother, Ellen,
passed
i remained the sole living custodian
of that inalienable space
called your heart
your heart which is my home
and now
writing from there, feeling all the love
you defended with your rage
knowing you were too poor
to travel where your last writing dream
would have taken you,
i in turn
defend your love
your unfinished page
with the duty of my own
alive and kickin’
lovin’ rage
(c) Julia Wright. June 2, 2025. All Rights Reserved to my children Ama and Malcolm who will in turn become the guardians of Richard’s heart.
FOR THE TIME THAT DOES NOT ESCAPE ME
the dogheat
and the need for
a warrior’s rest
pushed me
into a deep sleep
at noon
as i promised myself
i would wake up soon
but for a fleeting moment
when i opened my eyes
to a dimmed light
i wondered
whether
it was twilight
or
early the next day
at waning moonlight
had i been so tired
that i had slept
into tomorrow
leaving yesterday
and all my work
behind?
had i fast tracked
Time
or was it still today?
when i finally woke up
and focused,
gratitude
dimmed my eyes
because there was
a bit of twilight still
and so i put
some of tomorrow’s daylight
and delight
into this poetry –
grace said
for the Time
that had not escaped me
(c) Julia Wright June 5, 2026. All Rights Reserved.
MY WORDS ARE MY ARMY
to Susan Abulhawa and Vijay Prashad – two writers and poets who understand that our words of resistance are being scorch-earthed
my words
are my army
and those who would destroy me
arrest my metaphors – poetic prisoners
to take
to rape
and to erase
my words
are my army
to be wounded
taunted
tortured
out of their ancestral life
my words
are their enemy
but there will never be enough
zip ties
to stop their flight
my words
are the army
that fights at my fingertips –
an army
of perennial resistance
those who are illiterate in Love
keep trying to bait and kill
but will be condemned to roll
(our stones – their boulders)
like perennial Sisyphus
up and down a hill
that does not belong to them
my words
remind me of the first fish i caught –
it flashed silver and iridescent
but
as grasping as i was
in my childish tantrum
i was taught i could not own it
because Life was sacred
and
back to the stream
it was thrown
as the enemy
fishes avidly for my language –
the ability to write a poem
is giving life to the very words
the genocidal soldiers
are pulling from under
my feet
a poem
is a tug of war
and the opening of a door
beyond which no pirate
can take the carcass and bones
of that protected species –
my idiom
my words
are not for capture
and they are only for
external rapture
if those who read them
have signed
a Hippocratic Oath
to respect the beautiful body
of resilient culture
where they have always grown –
the splendor of a lawn
that will never be mown
(c) Julia Wright June 8, 2026. All Rights Reserved to a future publication of essays and poetry about imperialist word-capture and resistance.
THE HIDDEN BOXES SYNDROME IN OUR HISTORY
to Emmett Till and Patrice Lumumba RIP
to Mumia Abu-Jamal who we can still save
Brother Emmett Till,
to this day
seventy one years later,
there has been
no justice
for your lynching
your death
sparked the civil rights movement
and today
a law bears your name
but Carolyn Bryant
on whose testimony
the lynchers were let off
died an old lady in her bed
at home
surrounded by family
without being bothered
even though
a warrant for her arrest
had gathered dust
for decades
in a musty box
at the bottom of a court basement
Brother Patrice Lumumba
to this day
sixty-six years later,
there has been
no justice
for your lynching
in a small box
a spiritual Fort Knox
your gold tooth
all that remained from your acid erasure
gathered dust
until the Belgian state
decided to return it
in exchange for neo colonial favors
but the original team of your assassins
died
all except one who was to stand trial
until he too
suddenly passed the other day
but your brave family
will not stop
and they will sue the State.
Brother Mumia Abu-Jamal,
you are still
alive
after forty five years
behind bars
while the State has repeatedly tried
to lynch you
in six boxes
hidden to all eyes
for thirty six years
was the evidence
that could have indicted the State
that framed you
and now “Hanging” Judge Sabo
the State’s emissary
has long died
without having been bothered
will your political family
consider that the death of one aged criminal
does not give the State a pass
and also sue
the halls of power
whose plausible denial
has long been denounced
as
an international cause
and a textbook scandal?
(c) Julia Wright. June 9, 2026. All Rights Reserved to Mumia Abu-Jamal’s family
