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.