Again

A static-sensitive chip has slipped
from a conductive plastic bag.
   On an arid autumn day like today
   it may be zapped by a static spark --
   in an instant just a high-tech tie tack.

From a high window I watch a satin flag,
the Stars and Stripes,
sagging in a listless wind.
   The white stripes are bright
   under the Indian-Summer sun,
   but the red bands remind me of Maryland sandstone.
This proud banner is ponderous,
a heavy fabric trimmed in golden fringe
like silver-gilt lamé.


Hang your head for shame,
for the red badge ignobly appropriated,
for the palm cursed with 13 pieces of silver.

Now stoop your shoulder to the yoke,
   and bend your back to the lash.
Know again the bitter taste of sweat and blood;

let your children know the sweetness of freedom,
   the fatness of pride;
let them learn in their turn
   not to take your toil in vain.

On your neck hangs the millstone of guilt:

for the lame dog you whipped
   as he limped back from war;
for the hand you withheld from the heroes
   huddled in a January rain.


Fifty white men gathered in an indigo field,
Witnesses to a solemn sentence.
   A white man stood stripped to the waist,
   Bound with shackles ankle and wrist.
The whispering wind bore testimony
With fifty men standing in silence:
   Seven strokes with the leather lash
   Leave seven stripes on the white man's back.

(1992)

After the Catastrophe

fingers are slipping
gripping
the spongy blackened wet-rot logs,
and deadwood shed from sad and naked trees

And sun sets

And head turns

As dark fibrous slime finds its way into my skin
where rarified tears despoil the fine nacreous filigrees
which evening had accreted there

Now moon and stars have come and gone
And new ones move to shape the next strange state
Tracing the loops of a lemniscate

(1985; incomplete)