Thursday Poem


When you held him, how heavy was his head cradled in your lap? How long did you carry that weight in your thighs? Did you close his eyes or keep them open, waiting for the final glimmer before ghost? What did it feel like to wash the red stain from your hands, water and blood dripping down the drain? Your hands, a thousand feathers. Your hands, permanently curved around the back of his neck. Your hands, scrubbed clean. Your hands, facing upward, longing for rain.

by Tiana Nobile
Split This Rock

Author’s note:
Yuri Kochiyama was an Asian American activist and held Malcolm X’s head in her lap as he died. Her life and story deserve more attention, especially when solidarity between Black and Asian movement spaces remains often unacknowledged. I wrote this poem to honor Yuri, her grief, courage, and legacy