“I Had a Dream” … by Jonah Bettger
I don’t know how long ago it was,
But I had a dream.
It was on a seemingly normal night.
In a very normal bed.
And a not very normal dream.
This dream,
In a word,
Embodied disappointment.
I found myself standing next to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
On the bright stones steps
Of the Lincoln Memorial
And noticed
Somehow he had accidentally cut his hand.
Deep crimson blood running down
And staining the pure white of shirt as he raised his hand
And spoke.
And in that same instance,
My own blood had trickled down my palm
And tickled my wrist.
And in that same instance,
I was disappointed.
Our blood was the same,
Hot and boiling,
And ruining the innocent white sleeves of our shirts.
The same passion
But the twisted branches of our lineage
And history
The only sad difference.
I wanted to cry,
“Do we not bleed the same?”
To the apathetic, pale onlookers in the crowd,
Their faces drained of color;
Of deep crimson red.
And in that same instance,
My breathing had matched his,
Strong and unwavering.
And I was disappointed.
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“Do we not breathe the same?”
The rise and fall of our chests
Waves.
A stark contrast to the frozen sea of people,
So unconcerned,
So unmoving.
A white, intimidating glacier.
As still as a cold, frozen lake in the morning;
A dark abyss you could never venture down,
But could easily fall into.
The sound of a fence rattling
Of people climbing over in the dead of night
Not only shook the wire barrier
But shook me to my core
The sound of nails scratching unwanted skin
Skin considered too dark.
Not beautiful enough.
So much so,
That only the sweet burn of chemicals
Could fix it.
The sound of a deafening blast of a gun pierced my ears.
And I was disappointed.
A shot that so easily tore through this strong man’s heart,
Could have just as easily ripped apart mine.
And yet, in a way, it still did.
And I was disappointed.
It was like staring into a mirror
As a blind person
And accepting the fact that I could not see the differences of my features
And certainly did not care.
And in that same instance,
I was disappointed
That people could not be blind
To the same things we hated.
And in that same instance,
I was disappointed
That
My bedsheets were black
And you could not see
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The blood that remained on them
The entire history of them
My entire history on them
When I woke up
And discovered
I had accidentally cut my hand.
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