This is a revision of a poem I posted a few days ago. It's changed so much I decided to repost it.

"THE TALK"

At family gatherings

in the middle of laughter

someone will stop,

remembering

who isn’t there

Today

a nation talks

about him.

he

has become a

REASON

to talk

about

THE TALK.

the TALK nobody wants to have with their son but does,

despite 

years, 

and laws

and Martin, Malcolm, and Medgar

and others,

known and unknown.

all silenced.

THE TALK

gives warnings,

detailed instructions,

stories of what happened to uncles, friends, your father. 

it demands

promises.

he

thinks

you are old

and don't understand

things are different now.

"You said I'm just as good as anybody.

Did you lie?"

And you say he is

but they don't know

and they are scared.

and scared people are crazy.

and crazy people are best left alone.  

He makes the promise

so you will let him go.  

after the "good byes" and "be carefuls"

you do the falling-on-knees-begging- kind of prayer

because

you remember

when you didn't believe it either.

He is late coming home.

Is this the night?

Was he

so bold,

so filled with the confidence you raised him to have, 

to think

if he's doing

nothing wrong,

nothing bad

will happen? 

when he walks through the door

you whisper "thanks" 

before yelling. 

This boy that everyone is talking about,

this son, 

this man-child,

now gone, 

has revealed 

THE TALK

some folks

never knew existed.

some are stunned and sad.

they admit gratitude they don't have to do this TALK with their sons.

some say nothing.

No one has said

THE TALK

is no longer necessary.