Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 Poetry |

In Transit

1 In the neighborhood, which is not unfamiliar, which perpetually resumes motion in the broadest daylight, the complexion I'll know all my life, (the complexion of my fear) is a secret that won't keep. Around, out here, along the wide street someone follows me. Stops when I stop. Listens when I listen. I think, Is this a game? And, of course, it's not. I walk faster. Inhaled breath visible in each glance locating my brother's jaw in the killer's face. My blood spilling from his body: a pulsing stick figure to be shot down or etched into a cell wall. 2 Underneath a colored sky a man wills himself to rise, each slow start interrupted by police, their clubs clubbing the man's head, his chest, while the man, rather, the black man (which is altogether a different thing) is losing on the pavement. And as a mother, brother, sister, wife running red lights past breathless asphalt, choked buildings, I arrive again at the curb squinting, craning fo

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