Dear America
The heat not having broken all
month long, we stood
in line and watched a boy
race down the park’s tallest slide,
drop into the shallow pool
below, from which he rose
renewed, a look of joy, relief
across his face. My son held
my hand, and looking up,
judged how long it’d take
to reach the top of the stairs.
In front of us, the man, a head
taller, fifty pounds, at least,
more than I, wore red trunks,
his hair, dark brown, short.
I saw the swastika first,
White Power, inked
across his back, the scene:
skeletons climbed his spine
above a sea of flames. I felt
each breakable bone
in my boy’s hand, he, who
days before asked to live
with us forever. Idiot,
my mother called me once
because, You think everyone
is good. The man looked
across the park at no one,
younger than I’d have thought,
and when the line, as if
with one mind, began to move
again, he stepped forward, the foot
or two between us,
perilous, uncrossable.
Read two poems by Blas Falconer appearing in Terrain.org.
Header photo by Shantigirl22, courtesy Pixabay. Photo of Blas Falconer by Emily Petrie.