by g.a.costa
Still, the storm comes
We hear the wind howling in a thunderstorm,
some of us with hands over ears, others
with earplugs on.
A few listen to how the wind moans,
how it sputters a pain, when thunder cracks
as cruel as a cowhide whip
on a Black man's back.
Most of us hide under an umbrella when it rains,
or throw a hood over our heads.
A few choose to stand outside
and stand very still, looking up
to see the raindrops fall,
how they come down slow,
a steady flow of blood.
The blood is all around us.
Our hands are wet, our feet sink
into the soil,
a mesh of intestines, liver, lungs, heart.
Most of us trudge on, heads down, numbed.
The storm will pass, we tell ourselves,
like any other storm.
A few sink to their knees.
They dig their hands
into the earth's guts.
Another thunder snaps—
the whip lashes—
the wind gasps—
We run, run, huddle
into a building for shelter,
some of us hide under our beds.
A lightning strike splits the ground
open: more blood flows out
into rivers and lakes.
A whiff of iron rusts up our noses.
When the dark sky becomes clear again,
a scab forms over potholes and gashes.
Don't pick at it, we're told.
A few do and see
the bones exposed.
Do the Accent
“Do the accent!”
their laughter peals
like a tuning fork striking
the rim of champagne glasses.
The actor clears his throat,
tightens his vocal cords
like a banjo string,
pulled taut, snapping
into an off-key opening measure:
“You might be a redneck if you—”
toil in the sun,
your neck burns red,
flesh blisters, splits open,
skin peeling back,
your hands become
coarse and thick,
hardened to feelings
from digging, picking
crops for your Lords
dining inside towers.
Another banjo string
snaps—
an out-of-tune twang:
“You might be a redneck if you—”
tie a red bandana
around your neck and declare:
No more mining.
No more digging the rich earth
for piggy barons
and their whelps,
not until
there's fair pay,
a morsel of dignity,
a smidge of a shared humanity.
The poor blacks,
the poor browns,
and the poor whites unite,
bridging hands
on each other's wrists,
but the song's been rewritten,
its notes have faded,
now a smudge
on a yellowed music sheet:
You might be a redneckㅡ
“ㅡif y'all like cheap beer in a can,
if y'all shoot yer guns in the air,
but the bullets fall back down
to your feet!
Y'all dance on fire,
Y'all roll in your own blood,
yet still
you kiss your Lord's toes!”
The little marionettes
of Louis XVIs and Marie Antoinettes
double over
in a thunderstorm of laughter—
“Give the boy
his round of applause!”
The audience quieted
by a generous slice of cake,
ganache au chocolat
with a sprinkle of gold,
another round of cocktails,
a martini and a Manhattan,
please and thank you.
The Boot
Weekend shoppers stop to look at
the boot on your throat.
Entirely American, made with U.S.-sourced materials.
Not foreign.
Cafe patrons crane their necks to watch
the boot press onto your anterior neck
at the level of C3-C6 vertebrae,
below the hyoid bone / above the trachea.
A bi-partisan approval to equip the trooper
with ‘high-quality, safe, and reliable’ footwear--
to crush your larynx.
The shoppers, the patrons, the pedestrians whisper:
you shouldn't have said what you said.
But sing anyway.
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