Stepping On Snails
By Sylvia Byrne Pollack
Bred to be racist,
swaddled in white,
nourished on milk
from anxious breasts,
I left home not knowing
I wore contact lenses,
believed I was 100% truthful
when I swore I saw no difference
between myself and the occasional
black girls I met. How then to explain
the visceral cringe when a black man
walked toward me?
I’ve worked to remove that cringe,
root it out, stem and leaf
but it wants to grow back in this
nourishing American soil.
Words Matter vs. Word Smatter
Knee redefined as noose.
It’s not a new thing and it’s deadly efficient,
doesn’t require a tree and a rope.
It only takes hate. Hate and swagger
and a little pressure on the back
from the rest of the guys. For them,
was it like the frisson I felt when
I stepped on that snail in the garden,
“saving” the vegetables and flowers?
I’ve learned to act otherwise,
Can the cops?