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He, Pronoun

ISSUE:  Spring 2019


Everywhere I look I see him,
I have a right to fear for him,

though I have no right to claim his color.
His blackness is his to own and what will

my mouth say of that sweetness.
Am I colorless worn like a veil, invisible 

but present. He is a word grown upright
and some claim he is journalism, media

around me, so much light filtered through,
so much video of him, I shut it out,

the body shot through and I will not let
him out the door. Sideways, I view

a lens. If you could see the green field,
the cows with their maternal gazes, instinct

at their hooves, leaning into calves, edging in.
They come closer. When there is no more color,

I turn an old-fashioned knob of the TV,
black-and-white frames, where I view a hose

releasing water, dogs bark at the leash of time.
My son turns off the television believing it’s an ancient

toy. He sits on my lap and we lean against a wall,
he and I in the room. We watch the door.



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