Cover

BOOKS BY AI

Vice, 1999

Greed, 1993

Fate, 1991

Sin, 1986

Killing Floor, 1979

Cruelty, 1973

Title

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Dedication

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

TO THE SURVIVORS OF CHILDHOOD TRAUMA AND TO GWENDOLYN BROOKS

THE POEMS IN THIS BOOK HAVE APPEARED IN THE FOLLOWING MAGAZINES AND ANTHOLOGIES:

Callaloo: “The Greenwood Cycle,” “The White Homegirl”;
Canary River: “Dread”; Columbia Magazine: “Rude Awakening”; Crazy Horse: “Intercourse,”
“The Psychic Detective: Identity”; Divide: “Greetings Friend”; Estrella Mountain Community College:
“Family”; Etruscan Press: “Fairy Tale”; The Manthology:
“The Broker,” “The Calling”; New Delta Review: “The Secret”; Pacific Review: “Lullaby,” “Grandfather Says”;
Southeast Review: “Delusion”; Witness: “The Psychic Detective: Fantasy”; The Writer’s Garret: “Passage”

Dread

DREAD

My name is Shirley Herlihy,

but to the lowlifes on my beat,

I am Officer Girlie.

They do not mean to diss me.

It is a sign of respect

that I let them think is ok with me, and it is,

when I am trying to do my community policing.

After my brother disappeared

at the World Trade Center,

the word went out.

The lowlifes even gave me a bouquet of flowers

I could not accept.

They came from the Korean store

before somebody tossed a Molotov cocktail

through the front door

in retaliation for a “situation”

that involved the girlfriend of a drug dealer

shoplifting disposable diapers and Tampax.

The fact is I appreciated the thought

if not the deed.

I mean the flowers were at least a sign

I had not become a cop

turning a blind eye on the misery of the street.

I was known as someone who was tough,

but fair in meting out justice.

God knows it’s hard to toe the line

every single time a perp messes up, but I tried.

If somebody’s mother needed a ride

to a bail hearing,

my transportation specialist,

Bobby J, the gypsy cab guy would oblige.

I’d say thanks by slipping him

tickets to a ball game, a movie

or some lame excuse for entertainment.

I kept the wheels turning,

so I didn’t fall under them.

I only had to use my gun once in two years

against a sonofabitch

who murdered his uncle

and hid his body in a dumpster.

Original, huh?

Stanko, the wino, found him on his garbage rounds.

We cornered the asshole in an alley

behind that shooting gallery

in the building that’s now been gentrified

and is home to a decorater, six cats

and stacks of old cool jazz albums.

Anyway, the asshole said he had nothing to lose

fired and missed, fired again

and clipped me in the shins,

but I got him as I went down.

He died, but the paramedics revived him

and now he’s in prison.

He’s born again and keeps claiming Christ has risen,

as if nobody heard the news.

Once in a while, he calls me to apologize

and proselytize. I let him last time,