Poetry Thursday, perhaps the best title ever

No, Kanye, it’s not LIKE we’re mentally in prison
 ~Erica Dawson
 
         for my grandfather

We don’t have heirlooms. Haven’t owned things long enough. We’re
     hoarding us
in our stories.                        Like October 26—the Oklahoma Quick
Stop gas at 90¢ and, in 158 more days,

Passion of the Christ in a wildlife
refuge with Rabbits foot and Black
Capped birds—when Edgar Whetstone shoots

himself. Like August 4, 1919. Like Ada Willis births
the boy conceived with Boy gone somewhere. Like her prayers and
     circa 10
years past and Mr. Charlie saying, Edgar reads (you call that clean?)

but please, girl, coloreds don’t become
doctors. Like Edgar trashed his books.
Like served, discharged. Like funeral

director close to doctor as it got.                Formaldehyde wrecked
     him
like Time to get up out the South Detroit inspect dynamics burn
a house down torch the county jail.           Like now, October. Like I
     found,

searching the internet, one shot
of the asylum’s blurry hall
empty but for an organ’s pipes.

I saw Edgar deluding hymns rousing the two of us in Rock
of Ages followed by Philippians 1:21—to die
is gain. No way to prove the claim, you die in dream, you die for real.

Our family still hanged from trees.
Like if they ever fall, no one
will hear it someday for a while.