Poetry by Matthew E. Henry

    Taber Andrew Bain CC 




when asked why students come to me, “the tough teacher, the hard grader”


they trust I will never lie. never cliché them with tossed lines
that won’t float—pretty words braided with lead. that I rarely
deal in hope. am often honest. remind them we could all die
at any moment. that this any moment might be as good as it gets.
that any moment comfortable with a castle of cards, could meet
a stiff wind or an average four-year-old’s whims. I say most dogs die
before the day they were never promised and no heaven ever
needs another angel. there are no guarantees “it” will work out,
be fine, come up roses, aces, or on top. the silver lining might be
a lightning strike aimed at your house. or heart. life can deftly kill
without adding any emotional muscle. even Jesus said evil is
tomorrow’s only promise, so I try to be like Him—keeping ready
with a whip to defend my people, without the humble turning
of cheeks. ready with an ear, a strong-soft shoulder, an “I’m sorry,”
a “that fucking sucks,” appropriate silence, and sometimes--
sometimes—a suggestion that seems like a miracle. and the promise
I will be there, come what may. unless, of course, I’m already dead.
it’s fascinating how much they find this a comfort.

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when asked why you won’t be invited back to the BBQ

because 

                 sometimes you sound like the type of person 
                 who thinks slavery was the first corporate initiative 
                 to diversify the american workforce. 


                 you need to Google some shit, not expect me
                 to remain on call as your Blaxploitation fairy 
                 or Encyclopedia Niggatanica today. 

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                 I won’t co-sign the pilot episode of the white savior 
                 miniseries you’ve been shipping—the racism-lite saga 
                 inherited from your father and grandmother. 

                 if you ask me one more hypothetical whataboutism on 
                 use of “the N-word”—in music, literature, or for comic relief--
                 you’ll end up one of the statistics you secretly believe. 



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Matthew E. Henry is an educator, editor, and the author of six poetry collections, most recently said the Frog to the scorpion (Harbor Editions, 2024). The 2023 winner of the Solstice Literary Magazine Stephen Dunn Prize, MEH’s poetry and prose has been published in ASP Bulletin, Barren Magazine, Massachusetts Review, Mayday, Ploughshares, Porcupine Literary, Redivider, The Worcester Review, and Zone 3. MEH received his MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. You can find him at www.MEHPoeting.com writing about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground.