Peggy Morrison is a California writer who grew up in Long Beach, then raised her daughter, Keema, in Watsonville while working as a bilingual teacher. She now lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poetry has been published in Cloud Woman Quarterly, riverbabble, Poecology, Let the World Wonder, Naked Bulb Anthology, Day Without Art, DoorKnobs & BodyPaint. She is author of one book of poetry: Mom Says (2020) Along with writing, Peggy loves reading, teaching, gardening, music, and backpacking.
ironclad box
We are this country in a cultural box
cast iron thick and immobile
individualistic/tragically separate/competitive
We can’t find our way to simple collective action
for the common good
in the most fundamental, easy to understand moment,
when it is life and death, a plague, a biological, physical
plague that threatens our communal existence,
it is impossible for us to sense
ourselves as collective beings
to take the simple collective act of self-preservation
of wearing masks against the plague
It’s inconceivable for us in this cast iron
brother against brother agression
this nation beyond the pale
extremists on the edge of human experience
exceptionalism is the bullshit
we’re eating and spewing
in lieu of simple common sense
Whole Cloth
All humanity shares a planet being devastated by greed
As in the dystopian novels, small numbers of us
mostly white
are protected from suffering the consequences of our actions
while those of us who are black and brown carry painful burdens
But no one is safe from the ravages of racism
Knowledge is poisoned
twisted because it is not whole
only by diving deep into the bottomless well of human courage
into the sacred human heart of ancestral wisdoms
can we look into each other’s faces and find the
puzzle pieces to make the warp
whose weft we’ll draw with threads of diverse imagination
to weave the whole cloth
of a more equitable and generous society
This is the wrong house
I jumped from the bed trying to get away
crashed my quadriceps full into the corner of the
cedar hope chest
that was my mom’s
felt a deep bruise forming
but nothing is visible
the thigh ordinary flesh
my head hurts and I feel
numb
resources are low
But one has to keep feeling
to make a revolution
can’t shake the sense
that this is the wrong house
not the one I intended
to spend myself building
and yet
where else is home
who is family
Say His Name
(night in Sacramento, March 2018)
Say his name Stephon Clark say his name Stephon Clark
say his name Stephon Clark say his name Stephon Clark
Stephon Clark Stephon Clark
Stephon Clark
We hear them coming
run towards the voices
burning up the street
people of all races most are young black
can’t stop his death
can’t bring him back
there was no microphone
no designated speaker
spontaneous combustion lava flow
a moving human river of grief
we all shout
say his name Stephon Clark say his name
Stephon Clark
Maybe he broke windows with a crowbar
chased by helicopters and sirens
ran to hide in his grandma’s backyard
iphone in hand
the penalty is not death by execution
22 shots fired by police kill the unarmed man
night streets filled with young people
young people getting in the face of the police
yelling inches away from the SWAT team mask
locked into hot confrontation
I was afraid what could happen
wanted to protect them
wanted to diffuse violence
trembling, I stood near
the young black men shouting righteous anger
glistening planes of working cheek and jaw
white cop CHP spiked with weapons
ground his teeth staring at them his face rock hard
I thought if I stood there the police
would be less likely to hurt them
I didn’t have words don’t know if he saw
I stood close to the young men
shoulders touching
trembling heart
anger and grief
Stephon Clark
say his name
Stephon Clark