From the Bookshelf of Around the Year in 52 Books …

I.
I don’t want to hear their voices.
To stand sucking my teeth while they
Rant. For once, I don’t want to know
What they call truth, or what flags
Flicker from poles stuck to their roofs.

Let them wait. Lead them to the back porch
And let them lean there while the others eat.
If they thirst, give them a bucket and a tin cup.
If they’re sick, tell them the doctor’s away,
That he doesn’t treat their kind. Warn them

What kind of trouble tends to crop up
Around here after dark.

II.

Hate spread itself out thin and skims the surface,
Nudged along by the tide. When the waves go all to chop,

It breaks up into little bits that scurry off. Some
Get snapped up by what swims, which gets snapped up

Itself. Hooked through the lip or the gills and dragged
Onto deck to bat around at the ankles of men who’ll beat it,

Then scrape off the scales and fry it in oil. Afterward,
Some will sleep. And some will feel it bobbing there

On the inside. The night is different after that. Too small.
Something they swear could dispapear altogether,

Could lift up and drift off, leaving only the sun,
Which doesn’t have better sense than to cast its best light

On just anyone.


III.

Shawna Forde, Jason “Gunny” Bush and Albert Gaxiola,
Who killed Raul Flores and Brisenia Flores.

It’ll feel maybe like floating at first
And then a great current gets under you

And James von Brunn, who killed Stephen Tyrone Johns.
And Scott Roeder, who killed George R. Tiller.

And you ride – up to the ridge,
Over the side – feeling a gust of light

And Stephen P. Morgan, who killed Johanna Justin-Jinich.
And Andrew Dunton, who killed Omar Edwards.

Blasting through you
Like wind.



IV: In Which the Dead Send Postcards to Their Assailants from American’s Most Celebrated Landmarks

____

Dear Shawna,
How are you? Today we took a boat out to an island. It was cold even though the sun was hot on my skin. When we got off the boat, there was a statue of a big tall lady. My daddy and I rode in an elevator all the way up to the top of her head. My daddy says we’re free now to do whatever we want. I told him I wanted to jump through the window and fly home to Arizona. I hope to become a dancer or a veterinarian.
Love,
Brisenia

____

Dear James,
I walked the whole Mall today, from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. I thought I’d skip the Museum altogether, but my feet wanted to go there, so I let them. I stood outside the doors trying to see in, but it was so bright my own reflection was all that shone back at me. I can choose to feel or not to feel. I realized that today. Mostly it’s just nice to move through the crowds like I used to: unnoticed. Only now they move through me too. Men, women, everyone, feeling untouched. But I’ve touched them. It’s funny. I feel like myself. The breeze off the Potomac is calm.
Sincerely,
Stephen

____

Hello, Scott!
I thought of you today from a small grey pod inside the St. Louis Arch. We inched up, notch by notch, like some Cold War rendition of the womb. At the top, the doors yawned open and we pushed through the people watiing to go back down. The view’s mostly of a stadium. On the other side, you see the old city in passive decline. You realize how small you are up there, but everyone still acts normal size. We were an assault on the sleek arch, silent and gleaming alongside the ageless Mississippi. But the guys on the ground keep selling tickets and sending more up. You can feel wind rocking the structure all the way at the top.
See you around,
George

____

S --
I'm happy. I'll probably be in Greece soon, or the mountains of Chile. I used to think my body was a container for love. There is so much more now without my body. A kind of ecstasy. Tonight, I'm at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I don't know where I end. The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.
-- J

____

Dear Andrew,
I’m still here. I don’t think of you often, but when I do, I think you must look at people slowly, spinning through the versions of their lives before you speak. I think you must wonder what’s under their coats, in their fists, what words sit warming in their thoats. I think you feel humble, human. I hardly think of you, but when I do, it’s usually that.
Yours,
Omar
Harlem, USA

V.

Or was it fear

Forde, “Gunny” and Gaxiola

Like a bone caught in the throat

And James von Brun.
And Scott Roeder.

Nicking at every breath, every word at the lips

And Stepehen P. Morgan.

Like a joke that was on them

And Officer Andre Dunton.

And no one to trust for help?


VI.

Line them up. Let us look them in the face.
They are not as altogether ugly as we’d like.
Unobserved, they go about their lives
With familiar concentration. They pay
Their debts down bit by bit. They tithe.
They take the usual pride in their own devotion
To principle. And how radiant each is,

Touched by understanding, ready to stand
And go forth into that unmistakable light.
The good fight. One by one they rise,

Believing what to do, bowing each head
To what leads. And, empty of fear, buoyant
With the thrill of such might
they go.

We are here for what amounts to a few hours,
a day at most.

We feel around making sense of the terrain,
our own new limbs,

Bumping up against a herd of bodies
until one becomes home.

Moments sweep past. The grass bends
then learns again to stand.