Some days it feels like
The copy of “Great Expectations” forgotten,
Half-read, in the seat-back pocket of the plane
to China.
Or, like the last forward
Reflex of a smooshed spider leg.
But today,
Today, it feels like the moonbow
When the clouds part,
cutting the mist of Cumberland Falls,
painting it with dim but enduring
light.
Gunshots don’t ring out.
Freedom rings. Coronets.
The voices of Sabbath choirs,
table graces, children at play:
These, I will agree, ring out.
Gunshots explode. Thunder.
Sunder flesh from blood.
Echo down the halls of ages
as they remind us of loss
in every firecracker overheard.
Gunshots salute. Pay semi-holy
tribute to Our victory over Them,
to more of Them dying than Us,
whether the war is institutional,
or against our individual targets.
Poem 19, June 19
Repairs keep me from writing
When they moved in,
the carpet, low pile,
was new.
I said no pets loose in
the house to defile
but the words blew
in one ear & out
the other. I never
asked what fight,
in daylight,
in dark hours ever
possessed two people about
ten years past
the age of innocence
to become home
wreckers. The last
& only defense
they could muster like foam
on the sea
was to move away
& pay
nothing.
Tyrell:
When he analyzed “The Kiss” by Klimt
he wrote,”my momma should be
treated better.”
He told us, “I’m from
Ferguson,
this is nothing.”
When the verdict came
he was quiet.
Kendrick:
He and his girl are having
trouble.
She won’t tell her parents
about him.
The football player
dad would love,
yes, m’am gentleman
mom would trust,
who they will never know.
Austin:
Says “they” and “them” in
Baltimore
Are “so stupid to riot.”
Hat, shirt, cell phone
bear the
Confederate Flag.
Delaysia:
Her daddy is a preacher.
She was raised
in Philadelphia.
Lost friends and
family this year
but laughs when
she’s uncomfortable.
Me:
I don’t watch the news,
still I see the videos,
they just keep coming,
from city after city.
My wife is crying,
worried about our friends,
and through her tears
she whispers,
“I can’t breathe.”
Sheets of water obscure road
On pavement we sidestep rivers
We question our judgment—
Sign on theatre door:
Emergency Shelter
