Introduction
By Mari Reitsma Chevako

In April, soon after the pandemic forced us all inside, I read an article in The New York Times about how the earth was getting quieter as human activity ceased and how the quiet was giving scientists an increased ability to listen in on the “potentially dangerous faults” under our feet.

My friend Asher quotes the photographer Sebastião Salgado who says photography “is consistent ideologically and ethically with the person I am.” As a photographer himself, Asher takes this to heart and asks himself when he’s out to photograph, “What themes do I carry inside myself?” 

I believe this is a question all creative artists implicitly ask themselves and whose answer comes with the next breath. When I read The Times article, it didn’t conjure shifting tectonic plates but dangerous societal divisions. That’s because I don’t carry deep knowledge of the earth’s seismic activity; rather, I carry knowledge of the consequences of living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, geographically and experientially one of the nation’s most segregated cities. But where in our country are these fault lines now not radically shifting and lurching, as well they should? 

These poems began with the image of bright red lines running around my city, and proceeded with other images rushing in-- images of white conservatives protesting sheltering at home orders, of Amy Cooper summoning the police in Central park, of George Floyd’s murder, of Asher’s own photographs of protestors demanding justice.

Our work here embodies our deep desire to act justly and walk humbly, as well as the hope that we can sustain this moment and continue crossing the lines that separate us in order to stand face-to-face in front of each other, to honor each other, to understand that God is at eye level.

Hope
(Hebrews 6:19)

Everything hastens to steal our hope.
The tide conspires to pull us away
and set us afloat. The drain yearns
to suck us down as if we were waste
and the conqueror aims
to lead us away tied up in ropes.
Dig in your heels,
though not in the shifting sand
or swirling flood
or shaky alliances of man.
Even solid ground can turn to mud
and still waters roil beneath
and today’s enemy
was yesterday’s friend.
Hold your breath and hold on tight
though there seems to be 
no wrong and right,
no beginning or end
no help in sight.
Hope is an anchor to the soul, 
guaranteed not to falter or slip,
heavy, clumsy, fixed
and dripping with scum
when the storm’s past
and you’re hauled from the seabed
clinging to it,
gasping and numb.

The Earth Beneath Your Feet

("In this time of human quiescence, the creaking of some potentially dangerous faults may be detected better than ever," NY Times, 4/8/20)

Gone the hum of your human endeavor.
Your great cities lay quiet,
your machines no longer whir,
your games and music have ceased.
Listen: the earth beneath your feet 
is heaving and groaning.
Can you hear the migratory birds
trilling each to each? Indeed. 
But what does it matter
if you still won’t believe
a black man can thrill 
to the sound of a yellow warbler?
Leash your damn barking dogs.
Call off the police.
You have a moment here, 
your volume reduced,
your cacophony hushed, 
to hear the fault lines creaking,
uphold justice, defend the oppressed.
But mostly you mark 
the sound of your own heart, the swish of air
in and out of your lungs. 
You check your pulse,
you measure your breaths. 
But what of the breaths 
of the men on the pavement
knees on their necks?
You boast that you stand
on the right side of the divide, 
the right side of the country,
the right side of the street. 
You take up your guns
your superior red blood surging, 
pledging an oath to your country, yourself, 
as if when the moment comes
the earth won’t swallow you up. 
Who asked this of you,
this trampling, this restless to and fro, 
demanding rights in my name? 
Untie the blindfold from your eyes
and wind it around your lips.
You are not immune.
Away from me, away.
I don’t dread what you dread, 
nor fear what you fear.  
I make the earth tremble in place
and shake the heavens on high.
And you, white Christian,
festooned with your star-spangled shirt--
I never meant your skin to carry
the privilege you claim.  Even you
are made from ashes and dirt.

Strangers: After the Protests
June 6, 2020

I want to stand on my porch
my arms flung wide 
and welcome you in,
although if you really stepped forward
I may be confused 
about what comes next.
Sitting down at the kitchen table
seems right,
like women tired of running
taking a moment
to catch our breath
with the finish line
still out of sight.
I confess I'm afraid
I'd say something wrong
and you'd walk out,
one of us slamming the door
and the two of us bruised
on opposite sides
back at square one.
But there’s something about death
that demands
we haul out the photos,
yellowed and scarred,
and the stories we want to hide—
things we’d rather forget, grievous
rifts in the family tree, bloodlines
we’re ashamed to trace, violence,
injustice, wounds we carry,
the way they shape 
everything we feel and perceive,
every decision we make.
In my history, 
there's all that sin going on 
in broad daylight,
the scene overexposed,
and no one called to account.
Out of that white mist I come
blinking and free.
And what are these pictures we see
day after day
another black man down,
cuffed, hauled off, 
the shape of his body 
left like a ghost on the ground. 
I'm not qualified to speak of lynching
at the hands of the police, 
to place it in context—
the chains, the lash, the rope—
only to gather the images
we all own:
a man dangling from a tree.
His young wife pleading.
An aggrieved mistress mustering
the dogs and guns.
The slumped shoulders.
The smug face.
Look at us now: you
with your strong voice
pumping your fist in the air
and me with my Black Lives Matter
hand-made sign.
Where do we go next—
back to church,
to our separate but equal pews,
to our neighborhoods
and after-all-this
segregated lives?
If you’re able,
come to my house today.
I don't have in mind
a right way to do it—
who speaks first,
what complaints to air,
what misdeeds to address,
who else to summon living or dead.
It's just good after a long hard week
to sit at the table. 
To rest together breaking bread.