For the City that Nearly Broke Me
A woman tattoos Malik's name above
her breast & talks about the conspiracy
to destroy blacks. This is all a fancy way
to say that someone kirked out, emptied
five or six or seven shots into a warm body.
No indictment follows MalikÕs death,
follows smoke running from a fired pistol.
An old quarrel: crimson against concrete
& the officerÕs gun still smoking.
Someone says the people need to stand up,
that the systemÕs a glass house falling on only
a few heads. This & the stop snitching ads
are the conundrum and damn all that blood.
All those closed eyes imagining MalikÕs
killer forever coffled to a series of cells,
& you almost believe them, you do, except
the cognac in your hand is an old habit,
a toast to friends buried before the daybreak
of their old age. You know the truth
of the talking, of the quarrels & how
history lets the blamed go blameless for
the blood that flows black in the street;
you imagine there is a riot going on,
& someone is tossing a trash can through
SalÕs window calling that revolution,
while behind us cell doors keep clanking closed,
& MalikÕs casket door clanks closed,
& the bodies that roll off the block
& into the prisons and into the ground,
keep rolling, & no one will admit
that this is the way America strangles itself.