Types of Burns: Antigone in the Bluegrass by Marissa Davis
Black Lives Matter. We must all do what we can, one individual choice at a time, to dismantle white supremacy—in our selves, our relationships, our communities, and our institutions. Frontier stands in unrelenting support of the protestors demanding change—we send you every prayer, every bit of energy we have. Stay safe and stay healthy and stay bold.
Types of Burns is a space for Black voices who have something to say about this moment. This may be lyric essay, poetry, photography, etc. Submit your work here. We sincerely thank Marissa and every Black artist who has helped make Frontier what it is today. Today, we are publishing an urgent poem by Marissa Davis.
Antigone in the Bluegrass
“The body of David McAtee laid in the streets of Louisville, Kentucky,
for over 12 hours on Monday. McAtee had been killed by law
enforcement just after midnight on Sunday, May 31,
amid days of protests over police violence nationwide.
Noon the next day, protesters were gathered at the site.
McAtee’s body was still there.”
— Aída Chavez for The Intercept
& now each breath of me a bat screeching
through the streets hoping to echo off his body to find
where my brother was left for the new hard sun to blister left
for the turkey vultures rushing in heat from the western woods
& i am running towards water but where is the river & where
are the gods & why have they brought us here
ignoring the virtue of night
i loved him can’t they see
that i loved him he who fed
from the work of his hands
filled bellies with meat
pepper shocking so many lips like laughter
his face a mirror of my own
but this brute land parches metaphor
there is no such thing as psalm
when my brother’s heart
lies slack in a garden of dust
no home where our heads can rest
no bed for hushed prophets
i am so tired of breaking of trying
to seek beauty or shape it or trust
anything that claims this empire
worth more than its own ash yes i too can be
bloodthirsty clawing
for words that can strangle
a flag bring a king
to my breast leave him
begging for milk
how i would dance
when he starved
all my skin on fire all my blood
wailing & my bones
so many aftershocks
i have woken up sobbing for how many centuries
hunting for the river’s edge
through smoke but tell my brother
fear unravels its dominion
tugged down by the moon
of his name tell him in his name
i scrape off
their gospels of drought & i will give him
to the tender dark waters
myself if there is no law
that will bless his burial no god
still listening
for the sweet of our family’s pulses or to the wardrums
ringing in that gap
o come my cousins
let us batter their altars
Marissa Davis
Marissa Davis is a poet and translator from Paducah, Kentucky, residing in Brooklyn, New York. Her original poems have appeared in The Carolina Quarterly, Rattle, The Iowa Review, Sundog Lit, and Poem-A-Day, among other journals, and are forthcoming in Glass, Nimrod, and New South. Her translations are published in Ezra and forthcoming in Mid-American Review and Rhino. Her first chapbook, My Name & Other Languages I Am Learning How to Speak (Jai-Alai Books, 2020) was the winner of Cave Canem’s 2019 Toi Derricotte and Cornelius Eady Chapbook Prize. Davis is an MFA student at New York University.
