Slow Dance, With Bullet

This is when you become

political:

this unarmed black boy shot

this white killer cop not

charged but given three months paid

vacation plus one million

dollars in thanks for

this job well done.

This happened yesterday, too,

the day before that. They used to say

this:

     Dance, nigger dance and empty their guns

laughing—

this was their theory:

if you could rise fast enough the bullets

would not hit your feet.

This, the weight

of five centuries that did not break your back.

This, you were scared of then.

This, you stiffened silent

and bore.

This will happen again

tomorrow. Different city, different dead

black boy body. But now

this straw needle.

Oh, how your baby boy loves to dance. His legs, though,

are little. He could never jump, high enough.