Tasered Memories
by Tony Mitchelson
First images reel across her mind
as she stands in line at a Harlem check-out counter
She sees flickering flashes of a glorious continent
Her village is wedged in an enclave of a lush forest
Shrill cries of bush babies in trees signal end of night
She hears a distant staccato of palms slapping/shaping flatbread
Pungent whiffs of gari and spiced ghee
magically fill the aisles of her neighborhood store
She questions fellow shoppers on their recall
Fumbles on words to unfold her revelations
Tears smear her attempts to lend eyes to her visions
Something is amiss as she struggles to voice her puzzlement
Cautious onlookers distance themselves from her pleadings
Their faces portion only silent sympathy to her plight
Resign in shoppers’ eyes leaves her limited recourse
She dashes into the street to reclaim her regal spine
In the pouring rain of a humid summer day
she begins shedding her clothing
Seeks to clear the muddle in her mind
rinse the taint of tortured centuries
from her beautiful Black skin
Through blur of the downpour she sees their gather —
The circle of her people chanting in African tongues
She rejoices as they bolster her new kindle
Whirr of lights and piercing sirens
announce arrival of the city shields
She stutters the details of her new realizations to them
and spurns their orders to don her heaped garments
She twists and turns against their attempts to robe her in a blanket
They adjudge binding her hands behind her back as a best choice
then quickly place her into a gummy rear seat of a black-and-white
Cuffs crimping her wrists propel her mind back to a village
She bolts from her burning hut
Feels the blows of foes striking her body
Hands and feet are tied with hemp
She and family are dragged into the under bush
She squirms and resists this descent from eminence
Twisting and struggling against constraining cuffs
she kicks in vain at the locked car door
Bloodied wrists befit the boil of her thoughts
A profane-mouthed officer unlocks the door
Crudely pulls her out onto the wet concrete
From her tethered position on the ground
she hears the crackling sound of the taser
Her body buckles in the throes of neural confusion
She endures a sadistic second dose of tasered might
Her eyes bulge from shock as spittle dribbles to the pavement
Her mind leaks into the bottom of a slave ship
Squawking onlookers voice their displeasure
They deplore the mishandling of their sister
The city civil servants tell the protesters to disperse
In a rain-sopped blanket she is again placed into the car
Crass banter of detainers negate the logic of a needed ambulance
Instead of a hospital haven she is raced to a precinct’s purgatory
The log book of offense caustically reads:
“Resisted the fate of captivity.”
Reprinted from the forthcoming book Clapping Sheilds by Tony Mitchelson, Fall 2019
