Alexander, "Smile"

When I see a black man smiling

like that, nodding and smiling

with both hands visible, mouthing

“Yes, officer,” across the street,

I think of my father, who taught us

the words “coöperate,” “officer,”

to memorize badge numbers,

who has seen black men shot at

from behind in the warm months north.

And I think of the fine line —

hairline, eyelash, fingernail paring —

the whisper that separates

obsequious from safe. Armstrong,

Johnson, Robinson, Mays.

A woman with a yellow head

of cotton-candy hair stumbles out

of a bar at after-lunchtime

clutching a black man’s arm as if

for her life. And the brother

smiles, and his eyes are flint

as he watches all sides of the street.

Elizabeth Alexander