Stranger at the Crossroads

I began working on this poem last week. It seems appropriate after the events in Charlotteville, Va, this weekend. It's a bit rough, still. And it's not enough. I don't think words will ever be enough. But, sometimes, they are all we have.  The stranger at the crossroads
 
So unlike you--
skin brown as chestnuts,
hair braided into dreadlocks,
His lilting language an unfamiliar jumble of sound.
You stand in anticipation of catastrophe;
He’ll wash away your face, your true name, you say.
The fear so strong it makes you yell
“Mine. Mine.” until, hoarse with hatred, your throat is sore.
Red faced, panting,
 
you have forgotten what came before,
forgotten the only thing that will endure long after your fisted rage is done:
Love fearless and undaunted by the color of skin
Love that knows your hands, his hands reach the same
Love that understands fire and flame
Love that unites us, binds us, holds us
Love that can bring us to our knees, and stand us up again.
Love that sings out in lilting language, "You are me." 
 
No jumble of sound, the message is clear--
How is it that your fail to hear?
 
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