Drill

^{A battle drill is a collective action executed by a platoon or smaller element without the application of a deliberate decision-making process. The action is vital to success in combat or critical to preserve life. The drill is initiated on a cue, such as an enemy action or simply a leader’s order, and is a trained response to the given stimulus.}

^{—Battle Drills for the Infantry Rifle Platoon and Squad, 
United States Department of the Army Headquarters}

^{with a line from Carl Sandburg}

Whereas     cops    didn’t   respond    until   the    rind   of    my
          uncle’s person was crusted over by snow;  

Whereas  there  are  disturbing  indications  that  the Chicago
          Police    Department    murdered   Fred   Hampton    in      
          cold blood;

Whereas   my   mother   mooned   the   cops   when   her    sons
          were     hemmed   up    for    rushing      to     the    streets
          once  the  Bulls  won  the  ’98  finals; 

Whereas    the    morbid     snow      angel     his     body     made 
          that winter; 

Whereas    the    cops    came     knocking    because    we   played
          The Chi-lites too loud for that side of town; 

Whereas   there   are  disturbing   indications  that  the  Chicago
          Police   Department   murdered    [Dexter   Reed]   in
          cold blood;

Whereas    I    asked    my    nephew    what   he   wanted   to   be
          when he grew up and he said, A police;

Whereas   BULLSEYE!   the pig  oinked  for  sport; 

Whereas    someone    please    tell   my   children   I   loved   them. 
          Uh-huh, please tell them I yelled, Fuck 12;

Whereas    winter    snow    froze     him       his corpse   a marbled
          angel; 

Whereas     my     mother    was     arrested     for    indecent     ex-
          posure, cuffed and carted off our block;

Whereas   on   GD   plz    tell   my   kids  I  love  em,   on  GD   plz     
          tell em I said, Fuck 12; 

Whereas    I   asked    my    nephew   what    he    wanted    to    be 
          when  he  grew  up and he answered,    A  drill   rapper;

Whereas  my  mother  was  indecent,  exposed,  arrested;

Whereas      gentrification     phantomed     my       great       grand-
          mother’s     home  ⸺   41°      40'      49.8''     N      87°     37'
          17.904''   W   ⸺     these     coordinates,    our      only
          inheritance;

Whereas   demolished,  there is no there   there;

Whereas   decency   demands  I   name    the   arbiters   of    these
          lands ⸺   the Peoria,   the Sauk,    the Meskwaki,    the
          Myaamia,    the Ochéthi     Sakówin,     the Kaskaskia,
          the Kiikaapoi ⸺ ; 

Whereas     Drill      was    never    meant     to    leave    the     lips 
          of  Chicago   and   has  now   made   it  to  the   mouths
          of  Iraq,     Palestine,       Sudan,      France,       the UK,  
          the Congo,  and on and on and on;  

Whereas   I  ask   my   nephew   what   he wants    to   be   when
          he  grows up and he responds,  Alive;

Whereas   we    all     leapt     to     the     front     porch,    spotted
          the     spectacle     cross   the   full    hunters   moon,
          mistook    a    drone    for    Molly    Means   flying
          her   backwards   broom;

Whereas     my     niece’s    parakeet     buried   deeper    beneath  
          dirt   and  rubble  and  dirt  and  dirt;

Whereas   brittle   bone         marrow  now; 

Whereas  pig  nor panther could imagine me;

Whereas    we    knew    the   drill,   knew   the    infrared    eye
          of   the  state  was   ever-present,   be   it   blockade  or
          black site;

Whereas  Fierce   as  a  dog  with   tongue  lapping   for  action,
          cunning  as a  savage  pitted  against  the wilderness;

Whereas    we   cried,    Help.   They   heard,   Theatre,    then
          said, This time with a little bit more feeling ⸺

Copyright © 2024 by Jada Renée Allen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 27, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“My poem, ‘Drill,’ is writ toward Kongo; toward Turtle Island; toward Palestine; toward Sudan; toward Haiti; toward Ferguson; toward 117th Place and [South] Michigan Avenue; toward the West Side; toward the South Side; toward the Global South [and] its marginalized castes; toward the captives of Guantanamo and Homan Square; toward the survivors of Jon Burge; toward the enslaved, the ensnared, the incarcerated; toward fugitivity; toward the Black Panther Party; toward STAR; toward Claudia Rankine’s Citizen; toward Solmaz Sharif’s Look; toward Layli Long Soldier’s Whereas; toward Edward Said; toward Gwendolyn Brooks; toward Margaret Walker; toward June Jordan; toward my kin, of whom I have become; toward the liberated eye; toward the chainless imagination; toward life; toward the end of the world; toward a new world where genocide and displacement cannot, must not, will not exist.”
—Jada Renée Allen