Da’Shawn Mosley
Writer | Chicago, IL
Autobiography
“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.”
—Czeslaw Milosz
In my family, no
one speaks of how
Grandma divorced
their story as well as
mine. I did not know
love was the reason
Granddad after he
took me to the parole
hearing of my aunt’s
Grandma screamed at
Granddad when we came
home, or that this kind of
murderer, because I
said once that I wanted
to be a lawyer. I was
duality is as natural as the
shaky sea. I cannot tell
one story from memory
seven. I did not know
anyone in the courtroom
except Granddad,
without disclosing others
that do not belong to
me. Don’t you see?
a few of our relatives,
and John—sitting
at the table reserved
Thoreau wrote a poem
about the poem he would
have written if not taken
for the defendant—who
married my aunt, cut
the cake at their son’s
with the task of living
his life. Sometimes,
I wonder if art can really
birthday party, killed
his wife. I did not know
the woman with a mic
save us. If waved in a
baby’s face like a flag,
can a poem stop a bullet
by her lips, talking to
a video camera aimed
at her, some news logo
from lodging itself in
the throat of the future?
This is the problem
on the machine’s side,
nor did I know the
judge who heaved his
with what you’re doing,
a relative—I will not say
anything else about him—
gavel onto the sounding
block to signal recess.
But I am telling you
told me. You ask questions
with answers that unearth.
Home won’t survive you.