This Is Us

King

A poem for Chadwick Boseman and our other kings resting in power

They always die too young,
looking half their age,
hope smoothing worry lines,
trust lifting wrinkles into a smile,
the glint of their regal chins,
the energy of their stillness,
the unfairness of it all,
transforming us into
superheroes, leaders, artists, writers;
fire and fear and fearlessness
running up and over our edges
like lava vomited from volcanos
deep with sorrow and power.

They created countless kings,
when they stood brave and tall,
showed their faces to us all,
held unwavering arms high,
spoke words more eternal
than their lives could be,
vibrating like tuning forks
held in thin glass bottles,
messages reverberating across centuries,
reminding us of when gold
delicately circled our heads,
wrapped filigree round our necks,
cuffed molten round our wrists.