"Kerosene"
after the L.A. riot,
April ‘92
In my country the weather—
it’s not too good At every bus stop anger
holds her umbrella folded her
face buckled tight as a boot Along the avenues
beneath parked cars spent
cartridges glimmer A man’s head crushed
by nightsticks smoke still
slides from his mouth Let out wearing
uniforms hyenas rove in packs
unmuzzled and brothers strain inside
their brown skins like something wounded
thrown into a lake Slowly
like blood filling
cracks in the street slowly the
President arrived his mouth
slit into his face Like candles seen
through thick curtains sometimes
at night the dark citizens occur to him
like fishing lamps along
the black shore of a lake like moths
soaked in kerosene and lit