Without Sound

By Arnisha Royston

  After watching Black Panther 2  

the man next to me sobs
each inhale heavy         

the sound of air
moves in then out
fades beneath

the music
holds me still
           when i die lift me up bury me

in a casket
my mother can visit
maybe in the

sky.

there are no rituals for
death in my family.
i think
             i've known that this kind of pain
is permanent.      

 a face so still that you can see
each tear form

before it falls—grief—-

    don’t leave me
    don’t leave me

my mother tells me
      if she dies
           don’t waste money

on a funeral—i nod
she returns to the pot                

  it’s simple
  but i’m sobbing—silent still

each tear dissolving before it falls.
        no woman, no cry.

leaning close to the screen
       i think
       maybe none of this is real

maybe i’ve grown
                                 too accustom to death.  

i used crawl under the table
       when shots rang out
no one died
or
i don’t remember

death

just a child who knew survival.  

everyone is crying
    and i feel each breath
       each tear
       each body
sink lower   

i move closer
to understand
  what it means to  

carry pain
without sound
without feeling  

just tell me what i need to do.   

—

About Author

Arnisha Royston is a poet from Los Angeles. She holds a BA from the University of California, Los Angeles and a MFA from San Diego State University. Arnisha aims to extend the understanding of poetry and its relationship to the African American community, through her experience as a writer. Her poetry can be found in literary journals such as, Michigan Quarterly Review, North American Review, and Phoebe, to name a few. Arnisha can be found on Twitter and Instagram.