How many stories have you written?

How many times have your insides been assaulted?

How many keys bleed ink…to write a memoir that was not your own?



The infinite times you recorded history,

That was translated to poetry, taught to students,

Who shove you to the bottom of their backpack,

to make friends with the crumbs of a snack.



Your story, the one not written, based on neglect and defilement

evolved, adapted, was replaced,

Only to be remembered…


Your story is one containing symbolic themes of a teenage romance novel

with the perfect absence of real dialogue. I write your story

For which there is no audience—no book club or bestseller award—

To commemorate your selflessness.


Finally oracle, someone is giving you a voice, in silence—

In stillness of movement—

In antiquity.


I am remembering the medium used

By genius and by fool alike.

And as a personal favor I will ask the question

the question I’m sure you would have wanted to know:

Dear Mr. Dietz, What do you know of slavery?