A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
The Washington Post, Section B, Local Briefs:
another boy dead, and another –
Down the block.
In the alley.
In his car.
A few feet from a middle school.
At a bus shelter.
Dead at the scene.
Pronounced dead at the hospital.
City of split heads, city of gun shops sprouting,
city of playing the dozens across the steaming streets.
Streets of rain and fast anger, streets
of whistling, streets of mourning.
Mourning silence of lamp post shrines,
Sunday dinners cooking slowly in stewpots.
Stewpots of greens and fatback, all manner of potatoes,
pork that tumbles begging from the bone.
The dead young men lie in the city morgue, keeping company
with their dead brothers. It is Saturday.
Shake out the newspaper.
Shake death from the bus shelter.
July in DC, killing summer.
What city are we?
How do we call ourselves neighbors?
copyright 2015 Sarah Browning