I felt it before I heard or saw it.
A wave of hostility colored in anger
darkness creeping over hearts
while the warm sun kissed the peaceful.
“He’s white!” I hear her scream.
The grandson, after exchanging
the pungent presence of racism
committed to his violence
flailing at the seat-belted man
Releasing his hatred through his fists.
“STOP! STOP!” I yell at the assault
I bring the confused woman and her beau
water in plastic pink cups
The sun should be clouded over
with the bitterness of repulsion, but it isn’t.
The moving van waits
The ministry van drives away
The cops come, take names
forget it even happened.
My stomach is repulsed by the waves
still emanating from the gathered group
still aching from the pride fallen dead
in the gutter littered with foul words.
Mare Martell 