Brianna Bencosme Bidó

Pit Poems: The Pit

reader, you look 

un

scathed.

a ba

by 

bird bap

tized

by gra

vity

sa

ved by

grace.

i ain’t judgin.

i kn

ow

we all fa

ll 

and bl

eed,

some bruises

not se

en,

spirit singing

some bluesy

tune too 

de

ep

for speech.

i kn

ow

we all

ca

rry

a cross

but sometimes

its too 

sm

all

we put it in our pockets 

and forget.

i ain’t judgin.

but

plea

se

lea

ve

your

pristine skin 

at the door

plea 

se

lea

ve 

the door

of your 

body 

open 

for 

suffering

that is not

yours 

but 

ours

because

the grief of 

one

is the grief of

a generation

because

we ne

ed 

to scr

eam

when the nation is 

silently looking on,

because

we ne

ed 

to h

ang 

on to p

ain

when the nation is

numb

ing us to 

guns

because 

we ne

ed 

to si

ng 

the violence

until the be

lls

start ring

ing and

bring us back from

blindness.

so 

plea

se

place

your heart in 

your shoes

and walk with me

heart-trampled 

through the pit.

This is my 

home

town

this is my 

heart

open.

This is a

Belmont

 bodega

on Bathgate

 Avenue

and East 183rd Street.

That there is

15-year-old Lesandro Guzman-Feliz

 jump

ing over the counter

looking for cover 

from four Trintarios as

they dr

ag him out 

from behind the register

to the street corner and

chu

ck him 

with ma

chetes.

That there is

Dominican wea

pon of choice

they will stab him fo

ur inches de

ep in the neck

and he will ru

n to the outside of St. Barnabas' Hospital

and d

ie there.

This here is

a poem of rage

the elixir of w

ar 

this here is

a song 

my spirit 

for

ges

this here is

my pen 

marching to

ward

The Pit.

New York.

Detroit.

This here is 

for the boys 

who pick up the sw

ord

and march for

ward into a destitute 

country of red and white and blue and blue

bluesy tunes

for brown youth.

Doña

Not dueña, but 

doña de la casa, 

miss señora

haitiana—you peel platano 

with mahogany hands

elbow to elbow

with my grandmother 

over a steel sink—a pink 

skirt hem above the heel

swaying as you shift

hip, rest weight, and sigh 

in another language,

not foreign, but 

not invited unless asked. 

You do not speak

often, you do not speak

to me and the seven 

other children you feed

often, but you’ll call

me—seniorita de la casa

to the table and smile 

until you turn the corner 

and dissipate into creole

hums of distant—better times.

Doña, you wash clothes

en la madrugada and wash marble

walls down with mop and bucket 

in the evening without pause or

speech—your spanish 

as broken as mine, but

you belong on this side 

of the island more than

 I—with an American passport

and with common American ignorance, vacationing

where you work, finding 

stars and wishing 

where you found none, being 

brown where being 

black is a dirty secret 

left to ancestry experts.

You belong more than I

on this side, with your

afro locks and sandals,

red toenails and long forehead.

You look more I than I,

more island than horses

on the beach and palm shadow

in the sand.

And still, my people

push yours off the edge

of the Caribbean sea,

cut their heads at the border

with machetes and put their 

shared African history

to sleep.

Pit Poems: Iris City

Dirt children, 

bring me 

all your irises

yes, bring me

all your eyes 

on a bronze platter

together we’ll eat them

and learn to pray

with our mouths open

to the endless

array of fallen empires 

and starved tyrants.

Citizens of Iris, 

St. Louis, Detroit, 

Baltimore, Memphis,

  yes, you— Milwaukee

Rockford, Chicago,

yes, you—Cleveland, 

Springfield, Stockton,

bury your dead and bring me

all the eyes 

of your confessors and folk-tellers

all your officers and mayors

all your poets and lawyers

bring me 

all your student bodies and professors

all your unbelievers and protestors

America, 

bring me cities filled with irises,

bring me the bodies of irises

empty the vase of blood over the heads of your magistrates

for the stolen irises of Daunte Wright and George Floyd

for the withered irises of Eric Garner and Breonna Taylor

for the bleeding irises of Tamir Rice and Michael Brown

Americas, 

bring me all the zonas urbanas of Puerto Rico

Yes, bring me all the slain of El Salvador

Yes, bring me all of Venezuela, 

Honduras, Brazil, Colombia,

Yes, bring me Mexico, Guatemala, 

Belize. Bring me Jamaica, Trinidad

a nd Haiti.

Bring me all the irises of these tired countries.

Let us dig out the gravestones of the dead, 

and unmark all the heroes of these countries.

Let us dig out the flags of your dead countries

and unmark that which was never ours,

come

come alone with all the beatings you’ve received

come

crawl with me into the pit, the city of irises—

see that no country is free

see no country is free—

we only bury the dead history

we simply bury our dead

simply bury them.