One Last Thing I Must Tell You About America
When spring comes at last
it rains white petals.
It rains pine needles
and the dead skin of trees
patches the sidewalks
where newly-born pets
are out for a stroll.
Your violence scares me.
The boy who stepped
into the school hallway,
neatly hung up his coat,
and shot the coach
twelve times
with an automatic rifle.
You need more
hurt than life
on earth requires.
You think you are afraid
like me, but you are not.
I am afraid of how this fear
remakes me in its image.
I am afraid of how
animal you see me
when I am yelling
at stopped cars
in the construction zone.
I worry you will hurt
my dog who is not big
enough to fight
or my sister who just
now is in love.
I have seen the delicate
mending your hands can do,
and your work is well-wrought.
I have seen the black
smoke coming from
the school yard,
the way it dissipates
like extinguished embers
on clouds.
***
Kyle McCord is the author of five books of poetry including Gentle, World, Gentler (Ampersand 2015). He also co-edits iO: A Journal of New American Poetry and American Microreviews and Interviews.
