Stand by me in this, my hour—

“The situation is intolerable”

Intolerable: that civilized word.

Aren’t we civilized, too? Shoes shined,

each starched cuff unyielding,

each dovegray pleated trouser leg

a righteous sword advancing

onto the field of battle

in the name of the Lord . . .

Hush, now. Assay

the terrain: all around us dark

and the perimeter in flames,

but the stars—

tiny, missionary stars—

on high, serene, studding

the inky brow of heaven.

So what if we were born up a creek

and knocked flat with the paddle,

if we ain’t got a pot to piss in

and nowhere to put it if we did?

Our situation is intolerable, but what’s worse

is to sit here and do nothing.

O yes. O mercy on our souls.

Freedom Ride

As if, after High Street

and the left turn onto Exchange,

the view would veer onto

someplace fresh: Curaçao,

or a mosque adrift on a milk-fed pond.

But there’s just more cloud cover,

and germy air

condensing on the tinted glass,

and the little houses with

their fearful patches of yard

rushing into the flames.

Pull the cord a stop too soon, and

you’ll find yourself walking

a gauntlet of stares.

Daydream, and you’ll wake up

in the stale dark of a cinema,

Dallas playing its mistake over and over

until even that sad reel won’t stay

stuck—there’s still

Bobby and Malcolm and Memphis,

at every corner the same

scorched brick, darkened windows.

Make no mistake: There’s fire

back where you came from, too.

Pick any stop: You can ride

into the afternoon singing with strangers,

or rush home to the scotch

you’ve been pouring all day—

but where you sit is where you’ll be

when the fire hits.

Climbing In

Teeth.

Metallic. Lie-gapped.

Not a friendly shine

like the dime

cutting my palm

as I clutch the silver pole

to step up, up

(sweat gilding the dear lady’s
cheek)—these are big teeth,
teeth of the wolf

under Grandmother’s cap.

Not quite a grin.

Pay him to keep smiling

as the bright lady tumbles

head over tail

down the clinking gullet.

Claudette Colvin Goes to Work

Another Negro woman has been arrested and thrown into jail because she refused to get up out of her seat on the bus and give it to a white person. This is the second time since the Claudette Colbert [sic] case. . . . This must be stopped.

— BOYCOTT FLIER, DECEMBER 5, 1955

Menial twilight sweeps the storefronts along Lexington

as the shadows arrive to take their places

among the scourge of the earth. Here and there

a fickle brilliance—lightbulbs coming on

in each narrow residence, the golden wattage

of bleak interiors announcing Anyone home?

or I’m beat, bring me a beer.