Black Poetry Tuesdays (August 1, 2023 Edition): "Grief #213” by Saeed Jones

The week’s Black Poetry Tuesdays piece is from Saeed Jones. Saeed is a queer Black U.S. American writer and poet. His debut poetry collection, Prelude to Bruise, was named a 2014 finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for poetry. Saeed’s second book, a memoir, How We Fight for Our Lives, won the Kirkus Prize for Nonfiction in 2019. Jones's work centers on the intersections of the Black and queer experiences in the United States in relation to the world around us. His work speaks of liberation, introspection, trauma, and joy.

The following piece is called “Grief #213.” In this piece, Jones walks through being the token friend, the only Black person in a white person’s life. He talks about being seen yet being invisible in the eyes of white supremacy and anti-Blackness, going through the motions while realizing that your white “friend” will never understand how much of yourself you sacrifice in your relationship with them. As someone who has had these interactions with white “friends” up until 7 or so years ago, I felt this poem in my bones.

Grief #213

I grieve forced laughter, shrieks sharp as broken
champagne flutes and the bright white necks I wanted
to press the shards against. I grieve the dead bird of my right
hand on my chest, the air escaping my throat’s prison,
the scream mangled into a mere “ha!” I grieve unearned
exclamations. I grieve saying “you are so funny!” I grieve
saying “you’re killing me!” when I meant to say “you are
killing me.” I have died right in front of you so many times;
my ghost is my plus-one tonight. I grieve being your Black
confidante. I grieve being your best and your only. I grieve
“But you get it, right?” Right. I grieve that I got it
and I get it and I am it.

You can learn more about Saeed here.