Spring 2017 / Issue 101

A. Van Jordan

On May 15, 1970, the Jackson State killings occurred on the campus of Jackson State College (now Jackson State University) in Jackson, Mississippi. On May 14, 1970, a group of student protesters against the Vietnam War were confronted by city and state police. Shortly after midnight, the police opened fire, killing two students and injuring twelve. The event happened only eleven days after National Guardsmen killed four students in similar protests at Kent State University in Ohio. The Kent State incident captured national attention; the Jackson State killings did not.




A bullet comes through the air. It’s not fair

simply to fear them as projectiles;

often they are warnings. That is

to say, they sound out through time,

running up ahead to let us know

the terrain before us does not welcome

our kind, almost singing a single note

of advice: run.





Above us, squinting through the scope,

above us frowning, sharpening the focus,

pain and quirk and need, what else does he call for,


he who wields the secret to death?

What else scares us . . . what else do we scare?

What else rustles the leaves, nervous,

trying to remain calm?


Courage and warmth, what else

ended today as the clouds opened,

spreading the clarity of light?


I remember how the sky winced, gray and opaque,

and then, wide-eyed, what else did the day do?

Did dandelions lift from their stalks?

What else got the hell out of the way?


What else got caught in the crossfire,

in the wake of the whistling? I can’t see

you for the fuselage of the city,

littering the air, strewn across pavement.


I still long

for the mundane moment

before the seed, the seed that does not grow,

got planted in my chest.


What else sowed but did not reap?

Was I the harvest? Was I not meant to yield?





Spring came and the sun came and both left

a hole where warmth once fell like a salve

for the chill and the sting of the chill.


Nightfall. Now, nothing behaves like spring.

Earlier, clouds burned off the sky

but no one celebrates a clear day

filled with violence. No platitudes


get exchanged after a killing,

sometimes after a death but never after a killing.

Who cares about the weather?


Who cares who won the game?

I see my body but I cannot feel

as others touch my body. Did I


ever feel my body respond

to the response of another’s body?

What’s the point of asking this question?


Under the night air, coolness prevails.

A cool, spring night, someone will say

walking their dog before going to bed.


Will they know how violent the day was

before dark? We think of violence happening

at night. Once more, a day stretches


possibility to the limit. Someone wakes

to the possibility, asserting, as their feet

touch the cold floor at the side of their bed,


a new day. A future of which they cannot

conceive. A death they won’t believe

unless it actually finds them.





Some bodies had fallen out of fear

like animals freezing still when facing

a predator. Some bodies got shot


but not shot dead. Their lives

continue but with wounds we’ll never see;

these wounds won’t heal.


Some flew like prey across the veldt

of the campus quad, flew on their legs,

flew without grace, like prey will do,


pissing and shitting themselves,

surviving. Some have names we will forget.

They won’t mind; they took off running


to be forgotten. Me? I was once promising.

I stood there, looking into the sun. Above me,

the roof tops, the clock tower, the glint


of the gun. Stand still and watch

as people come back into the scene;

that’s what I’ll do, I said.


People, still, will not remember my name,

maybe they’ll mention me tonight

as they lie down in the dark


after they turn off the news, but once the screen

on the set powers off, I’ll lie as dead

as the distance one crosses through the night

believing there will be a sunrise.