Lenelle Moïse: where our protest sound
where our protest sound
jazz is underwater
vodou atlantis mute
aborted ultrasound
fetal fish in flood
haiti's first cousin
forcibly kissed
by a hurricane called
katrina. hot winds
come one fat
tuesday.
old levee leak
explodes. fixing funds gone
to homeland
security. soldiers
stationed in iraq. said,
jazz is underwater
days like laissez-faire
manna does not fall
saviors do not save
hunger prays to rage for
resilience, improvisational genius
implodes, anarchy duets
with despair.
bassist fingers loot—nimble
like a deft pianist. said, vodou
atlantis mute. the fragile
eardrums of instant orphans get
inundated with someone else's mama's
soprano saxophone screams.
(meanwhile televised tenor
voices report monotonous
drone to drown out)
the deafening beat
of funeral marchers
can't swim.
bloated trumpet
carcasses, a singer swallows human
sewage. her last note, a curse
on america. aborted
ultrasound. cacophonous
warnings scatter brains.
pedestrians hear calls to
evacuate, escape, and think, how
fast can on-foot run? the poor, the weary
just drown. abandoned elders
just drown. people
in wheelchairs just drown. the sick
in bed cannot leave. their doctors stay
behind too. new emergencies engulf
the e.r. swamped hospitals ain't
hostels, ain't shelters.
resources slim
like hope. nurses stay
behind too. their loyal partners
will not leave. ill-fated
rejects just drown. said, fetal fish
in flood. outside, a breaking
willow weeps like a father
on his rooftop, murmuring
his wife's last words: clutch tight
to our babies and let me
die, she had pleaded, you can't
hold on to us all, let me die.
she, too, like jazz, is
underwater. her love,
her certainty, will
haunt him. their children's
survival, a scar. sanity also
loses its grip, guilt-weight
like cold, wet clothes.
eighty percent of new orleans
submerged. debris lingers, disease
looms. said, days like laissez-faire.
manna does not fall. shock battles
suicide thoughts.
some thirsty throats cope,
manage dirges in cajun, in zydeco.
out-of-state kin can't
get through.
refugees (refugees?) remember
ruined homes.
a preacher remembers the book
of revelations. still saviors
wait to save.
and the living wade with the countless
dead while
a wealthy president flies
overhead
up where brown people look
up where
brown people look like
spoiled jambalaya, stewing
from a distance
in their down-there
distress, said,
he's free—
high up—far up—
vacation fresh—eagle up, up
and away
from the place
where our protest
sound started, still
sings. american music
gurgling cyclone litanies
man cannot prevent, the man
cannot hear.
Discussion Questions
What was your reaction to this poem? In what ways does it (or doesn't it) resonate with experiences during the Covid pandemic?
How does this poem shape your thinking on our present moment? How might it inform your actions in healthcare or beyond?
Reflections from #MedHumChat
“As I read this poem I had the thought “this is a cacophony” and then I found the word cacophonous on the page. The words swell and surge capturing the turmoil present over the last few months and particularly now.”—@CarlySokach
"jazz is underwater" to me represents how the things we love are muffled by the chaos of what's going on around us. It's harder to lean into self-care, but even more important than ever.”—@AtashaJordan
About this #MedHumChat
“where out protest sound” was paired with two other poems, “When I Think of Tamir Rice While Driving” by Reginald Dwayne Betts and “Let America Be America Again” by Langston Hughes, for a #MedHumChat discussion on June 3rd, 2020 exploring Racism, Police Violence, and the Struggle for Justice.
About the Author
Lenelle Moïse (@lenellemoise) is an award-winning poet, playwright, screenwriter, performer, and author of the book "Haiti Glass."