By Andrés Castro
Dropped and broken,
over and over,
we were dropped broken here—
the labeled Spic and Nigger boys, said
from stupid mothers and ugly fathers, said
marked by wire gashes, gunshots, and sex toys,
waking to crying, screaming, lying, threats.
We were dropped broken here.
Who bothers to look inside the hand
that’s helping? In this cracked community,
in this grey wooden house, three administrators
glide through the rooms where we stay.
On Friday night
explosions take place when
broken heads race when
venting is play when
the shrinks stay away.
Would you listen? Could you listen
to nine broken heads screaming?
“I’m Boss!” “I’m Blade!” “I’m Cold!”
“I’m Lost!” “I’m Slick!” “I’m Blood”
“I’m Cross!” I’m Deep!” I’m Dreamin!”
No! No!
We’re drowning, not touching
bottom, drowning
in a vat of grease, blood, melting needles,
Haldol, Prolixin—
bodies inside out, twisted faces,
anatomical toys, boys
our broken heads split open,
emptying out into the street.
Please, will you tell somebody?
Notify next of kin.
Author’s note: The material for this poem came to me in a nightmare after I began working as a psychiatric group home counselor in 1995. I quit shortly after having to dispense powerful psychotropic drugs to the sweetest teenager who had returned a sedated shell after meeting with his abusive parents for Christmas and consequently having a breakdown and being hospitalized. Short-term therapy, including tranquilizing psychotropics, instead of empowering long-term language and learning based modalities, is still widely accepted, especially in poorer communities.
Andrés Castro, a PEN member, is listed in Poets & Writers Directory and regularly posts work on his personal blog, The Practicing Poet. He lives in Queens, NY.
Photo by Harlie Raethel on Unsplash.
Powerful and tragic, and far too true for so many. Beautifully written about an ugly reality.