I believe in the myth of Napoleon
shooting cannons at the Sphinx
because I believe every story
about a white man shooting at a black face.
In Talcott, they never stop killing John Henry because
he won’t fall down. His skin a template for the terror
every cop or concerned citizen will claim
claimed them when they had to shoot. Night
of the Living Dead over and over. Another black body dying
to be shot, dragged or painted
white when America’s legitimate sons whistle
his song. The statue is real,
realer than the man, realer than me.
That metal body is a body America will see
and admit to beating and burning
and turning against itself.
The repairs won’t replace the need
to scar. A patched chest won’t cover
the howl of all the triggers,
the pop of every bullet bursting through
boys not made of bronze.
