WHEN MY BROTHER FELL
(For Joseph Beam)
When my brother fell I picked up his weapons and never once questioned whether I could carry the weight and grief, the responsibility he shouldered. I never questioned whether I could aim or be as precise as he. He had fallen, and the passing ceremonies marking his death did not stop the war. Standing at the front lines flanked by able brothers who miss his eloquent courage, his insistent voice urging us to rebel, urging us to not fear embracing for more than sex, for more than kisses and notches in our belts. Our loss is greater than all the space we fill with prayers and praise. He burned out his pure life force to bring us a chance to love ourselves with commitment. He knew the simple spilling of seed would not be enough to bind us. It is difficult to stop marching, Joseph, impossible to stop our assault. The tributes and testimonies in your honor flare up like torches. Every night a light blazes for you in one of our hearts. There was no one lonelier than you, Joseph. Perhaps you wanted love so desperately and pleaded with God for the only mercy that could be spared. Perhaps God knew you couldn't be given more than public love in this lifetime. When I stand on the front lines, now cussing the lack of truth, the absence of willful change and strategic coalitions, I realize sewing quilts will not bring you back nor save us. It's too soon to make monuments for all we are losing, for the lack of truth as to why we are dying, who wants us dead, what purpose does it serve? When my brother fell I picked up his weapons. I didn't question whether I could aim or be as precise as he. A needle and thread were not among his things I found.
-- Essex Hemphill
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