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

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