A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Hate pulls up a bar stool to watch the All-Star Game
in city neighborhoods and on country roads all over the land.
Hate roots for the American League.
Hate roots for the National League.
Hate roots for the Dominicans and the Cubans
on TV screens above bars up and down the land.
Hate takes to the sky at dusk, cawing down the airwaves,
circling over suburban lawns and swimming pools,
just now trimmed and skimmed by the uncles of the children
at the border, their fathers and cousins.
Hate hollers at its own children, as they climb the steps
of the bus taking them off to summer camp, lest they forget
to hate the aunties of the children at the border, the aunties
even now sweeping the cabins and preparing
potato salad and burgers for Hate’s children.
Hate is languid one minute, heated the next.
Hate applies sunscreen and reaches for a thriller,
tilts back its lawn chair and sips its Coke.
The children at the border look sweet enough.
It’s not personal, Hate allows. It’s just – you know –
Hate got here first.
copyright 2015 Sarah Browning