My People
Once I’d see those not-quite city
houses tucked between river
and road or up a gravel lane, place
for a garden, two cars for parts,
and think—my people.
My vowels would slow and stretch
a hand to theirs. Now
I scan for other signs—
MAGA, Trump, the battle lines
now visible as scars crisscrossed
against illusion of who and what
was ever mine.
12 thoughts on "My People"
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Great poem.
i kinda feel
that those are artificial
barriers on both sides
put up for someone else’s
purpose…the fella down
the road who can fix anything
has his Don’t Tread flag
but is no snake and the most
polite stay-at-home dad
you’ll ever meet
I agree Jim. I have mixed feelings.
“We are not as divided as we are being told we are.”
Said last week by Matthew McConaughey who has not always been my favorite but he gave a great speech for both sides last week. But I digress. I love the scars crossing agains the illusion.
the fissures unseen – until they are.
I think we have to get under the scars. under the signs to heal.
There is great depth here as well as divide and we have to learn how to step into the other side without judgement somehow, to heal.
This poem speaks to that inexplicable surprise when we realize that we don’t know the people we thought we knew as well as we thought. Ya’ follow? (ha!) So many of us were surprised by this with the 2016 election.
I sense a fear and caution in myself around people I would not have five years ago.
The ending is wonderful, weighty, haunting.
Powerful ending.
Brilliant capture of kinship:
“My vowels would slow and stretch/a hand to theirs.”
And loss:
“the battle lines/now visible as scars crisscrossed/against illusion of who and what/was ever mine.”
Love this