Read Poetry: SHACKLES, by David Risk

(Shackles: noun, a pair of fetters connected together by a chain used to fasten a prisoner’s wrists or ankles together; manacles; any similarly conceived device for restraint; implements or methods used for curtailment, restriction, control.)

In Greek and Roman mythology,
Vulcan was the blacksmith of the gods.
A supremely skilled craftsman was he.
His forge was a volcano.
A master of astonishing intricacy,
he was the creator of weapons,
the maker of metalworking,
the forger of infernos.

In 1619, Vulcan’s distant descendants
faced a unique challenge. The 1619 ironsmith
had a brand new order to fulfill.
This ironsmith was charged with fashioning
leg irons,
small enough to bind the ankles of a child.
Was he up to the job, this ironsmith?
He’s clever, this 1619 smithie.
Clever enough to forge ironbound bracelets,
small enough to clap around the wrists
of a small child,
a small enslaved child,
somebody’s little boy,
somebody’s little girl.
This ironsmith was summoned with this,
the devil’s own task.

And he, and legions of other smithies like him
stepped up to the commission.
And fired up the coke,
And pounded the iron,
and rendered the product.
Because there was money in it.
There was money in it.
There was no humanity in it.
But there was money in it.
So it got done.

And so it evolved,
and the fierce cauldron of slavery was forged.
Because there was money in it.
There was money in it.
There was no morality in it.
But there was money in it.
So it got done.

Voter suppression too is a forger’s mission.
fire up the coke
pound the iron
render the product:
Block the vote.
Purge the rolls.
Bar mail-in ballots.

Because there is power in it.
There is power in it.
There is no democracy in it.
But there is power in it.
So it gets done.

A black man’s neck is clamped
under a white cop’s knee.
Humanity, democracy, and breath
suppressed.
Justice manacled.
White supremacy’s heritage:
fired by intolerance,
pounded in hate.
rendered in racism.
The die is cast
And the course is fixed.
There is no empathy in it.
There is only hate in it.

The confidence of virtue falls anemic, while
the confidence of vice explodes robust and ruddy.
The blue wall of confidence:
under-nourished and over-funded.
Bloated to the point of starvation.

There is the confidence of hate.
There is the malignancy of hate.
The hubristic arrogance of hate.
There is the virus of hate.
There is the fetid, choking stench of hate.
There are the shackles of hate.
There is no love in it.
But there’s money in it.
There is money in it.
So it gets done.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest