Poetry by Ty Chapman
On Sacrifice
I. Hanging
Out in this tree, I see so many fresh-reddened faces.
Their lips twist to conjure curses on my kin.
Burning torches illuminate sailing spittle. Limbs
splayed, they’ve laid me out like a prophet. Bathe
in my fleeting essence. This, my final gift to a people
who only know to take. The death rattle of unrequited
love. The slaughter of so many dreams.
The emptiest giving.
II. Sometimes, Love
It wasn’t until a fifth into life, I realized love is sacrifice.
Standing on mounds of used up loved ones. I realized
there is so much more to existence than taking.
& the sweetest thing you can do is carve out your still
beating heart. Serve it on fine china. Say, “Here.
I made this for you.”
III. Giving
So now I give my all to the Earth
& her famished offspring.
Save the fat for the worms
who work eternal. Never thanked.
Sometimes love is quiet, sometimes
sacrifice. They know too well,
the fall of careless boots. The
thousand deaths of a giver. How
a parent might smother dreams
to better serve their loves. How
the soil knows to keep the memories.
IV. Sometimes Love,
Sometimes love, I dread too long
the tree I’ll hang from & whether
the tunneling worms will be gentle.
Sometimes I only think of death
& the many ways I’ll cheat it.
Who the bell tolls for & whether
they’ll weep at my funeral.
If the pews will be covered
in cobwebs, an assembly of
offerings haunting my memory.
Sometimes love, I’m all tunnel vision & broken
promises. Know my mind returns to you.
Know I’d give it fully, freely,
were it not promised already.
Were there not a tree with my name on it,
and a family waiting, hungrily.
Unconditional Love
Melancholy mornings I wonder
where my joy’s gone.
Lost at ten, innocence short-lived,
world-weary always. Awaiting
the lynch mob, the moment
I realized they’ll kill kids too.
Melancholy mornings
I wonder where my joy is.
I think on youth I used to mentor &
remember innocent eyes & pure smiles
that haven’t known sorrow well.
Haven’t known the kind that breaks,
their world still filled to the brim.
Magic & honey,
hope & second chances after temper tantrums
& fifth chances after temper tantrums.
Unconditional love & other illusions.
I remember the days
their unbridled joy was a rallying cry.
A reminder that we all begin
something so pure so human-
ity must have merit.
This plague of the earth
must be worth preserving,
if only for them.
If only for black kids
who sing Juice Wrld in class
(but I can’t be mad cause it’s lit.)
If only for innocent eyes & pure smiles
that haven't known sorrow.
Well, haven’t known the kind that breaks.
Their world still filled to the brim.
