On a sinking ship
Those who fight
with
Those working to plug
the holes
Risk
A brisk push
overboard

Two tiger cats
On a windowsill
Watching leaves tumble
Across a crisp lawn
As the wind whispers
And a raven caws

A shock of red
Amid a patch of
wide green leaves
I reached down in
To pluck the fruit
I’d seen
Felt the clammy mound
On my fingertip
My hand recoiled
But I gritted my teeth
And flicked the ginger-brown
spoiler
Down on the rocks
Where it oozed
a mustard trail
As it slithered
Away
And disappeared beneath
The gravel.

Listen,
Listen,
For that high pitched
Clannish call.
Isabella,
British colonies,
150 chained Souls.

Listen,
Listen,
For that tune
Of white-washed memories.
Tobacco fields,
Slave labor,
A blight on a Nation’s legacy.

That tune,
That tune,
Ode to bullwhips
And slave patrols.
Ode to white fear,
Bankrupt plantations,
And rage over emancipation.

That tune,
That flag,
Fractured a Nation,
Assassinated its better angels,
Pressed a blunt knee
on the neck of
Its Black history.

That flag,
Those statues,
Over 1,700 symbols
Of inhumanity,
Of treason,
Of a fight for
A Nation’s identity.

That flag,
Those symbols,
Whistles for the
Whistlers.
Still brutal,
Still exclusionary,
Still chillingly influential.

On the beat,
In the parks,
In the City Halls,
They whistle
They whistle,
That high-pitched
Clannish call,

Through those road signs
Through those army bases
Through those high-horsed
Men in gray statues,
And, through a loud-mouthed
President, guilty
Of having no clue.

Listen,
Listen,
For its what those whistlers do.
Warning some,
Inspiring others,
Hissing their on-the-sly tune,
To say: “We’re still here for you.”

By Mimi Rosen