It's lots and lots of people that's been killed, just part of day-to-day life here in the Ida B. Wells Project, looks like, you know, a 14-story cemetery.
- Lloyd Newman, 10th grade and LeAlan Jones, 11th Grade
On Thursday, October 13, 1994, Eric Morse, aged five,
was dropped to his death. Derrick Morse,
his eight-year-old brother,
tried to save him. Chicago boys I never knew, who
will not let go. It's like that.
In my dreams, I do not see him fall,
a movie doll dropped for our sadistic thrill,
and I refuse even to think
of screams. But what I do keep seeing
is Derrick whip-slipping down stairs
floor to
floor
down
blurred banisters
two
three
steps at a time down
14 floors
my brother is
falling
is
like drowning
I came close once, flailing in a lake's mud bottom
imagining my cries would rise
in cartoon balloon bubbles to burst Help!
in that far blue sky water ceiling, but what saved
was not a worrd but a brother's hand that grabbed
dragged up to air
but air cares even less
than water, lets you
slip through
without even a wake
to mark your passing
and because Eric will not steal
candy for the ten-year-olds, they
dangle him from a 14th floor window
and Derrick grabs and gets him
until one of them bites his hand
and he has to let go
so
he races
for the stairs
I can catch him
I can catch
him I can
catch him
I can
be
there
before
he
hits
the
ground
their defense attorney said
I don’t care how big, how mean they want to be,
five minutes and you’re talking to little boys,
and every one of them . . . they’re all savable
every one of them
except this one
falling
14 stories
14 flights
14 floors
catch
him
Larry Janowski
from BrotherKeeper, copyright 2007, Puddin'head Press. Used with permission.
