Spring was lost to lockdown. Now it’s summer,
the air thick with humidity and fear.
Returned to work, we sweat into our masks.
The scientists are taken off the air.
I AM NOT A RACIST, the racist yells
while bodies pile up like bags of gold.
Cars honk for protestors carrying signs.
The ground trembles when stone generals fall.
It’s always about who has the power.
Ninety years ago, at Ellis Island,
my grandfather, but not his name, allowed
to enter. Boats of Jews turned back to die.
What does it mean to be American?
Glory, God and guns. But no tenderness.
Official fireworks banned, my neighbor
provides a noisy, low-budget display.
Zimmerman autographs bags of Skittles.
Fake stallions watch through moss-covered eyes.