The boys are kicking over garbage cans 
and smashing car windows with heaves
of glass bottles. Time in the pest house 
of school or remediation on a road crew 

has moved them to boredom with bare knuckles
 and stolen knives. Soon, their insecurity 
will concentrate on the grip of a Glock 

till an enemy, who a minute before
was unknown and not an enemy, appears
under a streetlight. The provocation 
will be slight: soft palms hardened 

to a shove. In days to come, 
friends of the enemy will strip bark 
from the few trees they know and graffiti 

their grief onto the trunks. And the boys,
even after the votive jars have filled
with rainwater and plastic rose bouquets 
have somehow wilted in the humidity, 

the boys will also mourn their killed. 
In their woe they will want for a light 
to slow-drag through them, a light 

like the reflection of sequin or chrome. 
They will not find it and they will not 
find it until they are discovered faceup 
in a dirt lot where neighbors remember

a house, a while back, was torn down, 
where now bricks and teeth of glass 
push up, like Indian bones, through the soil.

An Abridged History of American Violence

The Irvine cops picked up Sherod 
while he was riding Jimmy&rsquo;s bike 
to school. He&rsquo;d snuck up into the scrub hills 
above our complex to work on the fort 
we were building with wood from a deserted
rancher&rsquo;s shack. By the time he came down 
to the bus stop, we were the diesel exhaust
that ferried us to our daydreaming hours. 

Jimmy&rsquo;s bike stood in the communal racks.
We all knew the combination to its lock
and took the Huffy as needed. Sherod&rsquo;s need&mdash;
to be at Rancho Middle before his father
found out he&rsquo;d never made it&mdash;his need
was one too many. Jimmy&rsquo;s father, 
out the door to work, saw his son&rsquo;s bike 
gone again, reported it stolen to the cops. 
A morning patrol found the bike
underneath a black boy not in school
and hauling ass down Culver Drive.

I did not understand what adult machinations 
led to my parents driving that afternoon, with me, 
to the Irvine police station. My father
had emigrated from England in the 70s
and was hipped to the American scene as soon
as he started dating my mother. He got out 
of our Chevette, looked back at his black wife, 
his too-brown son, and said, Stay put, you two. 

If he pulled that white savior bullshit now,
we&rsquo;d have words. But I didn&rsquo;t have that term
white savior then. Even if I&rsquo;d known it, 
I don&rsquo;t think I would have used it that day.
Would have cared to use it. My friend was in jail
and headed to juvie, that scare story&mdash;whaled on
by high school monsters twice our size&mdash;tormenting
our nights and keeping our days straight and narrow.
I didn&rsquo;t care what my father said inside the station,
with what English boys&rsquo; school curtness he said it, 
with what iron-backed code of whiteness. Didn&rsquo;t care
and was happy when he strode out with Sherod 

trailing behind him. Sherod, who did not speak 
on the ride back to our apartments, who watched rows
of eucalyptus blur by on University Avenue, who 
the next morning we avoided at the bus stop, 
who did not try to join us, who stood with his back 
toward the bike racks, toward Jimmy&rsquo;s bike, fastened 
there again, with new lock, with double loop of new chain.

California Penal Code 484

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; What flag will fly for me / When I die?
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &mdash;Langston Hughes


From a distance, my flag
and star could be you. I could be.
If I weren&rsquo;t, my body&mdash;the place 
would still have need of it. No 
Romanesque without me. I am. 
I am. And the price of my being: 
no monuments built me. None 
save those cradled in crabgrass, 
left for chicory. No monuments 
but the air breathed. The history 
of arches and burning 
hearts. The history of false teeth
and matches. No monument
but the knowledge gained in overrun 
gardens: yellow-ringed snakes 
and plumage of undiscovered 
birds. But the topography
of mountains we have yet 
to scale (looming forever 
in the haze).
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; My body, your body&mdash;
all our lives we have known 
each other. Your arms clung 
to porch columns. Mine painted
the fence in whitewash. Mine stood by 
the gate and held it, every morning, open. 
You saw me once. You do not see me.
My talk to you comes out a backward
cacophony, the chattering of crows 
in the field&rsquo;s distant sycamore. 
You do not see me. You do not 
see me. No monument 
you&rsquo;d ever recognize. A flutter. 
A spring hinge. A flush
of violet above tough stalk.
A line of char in the soil. 
A catch, in your lungs, 
of cold air. I am. I could be. 

Love, oh love, oh careless love


Fucking can&rsquo;t stand when I 
slice a grapefruit to an uneven
split. For this small fault, I&rsquo;m cursing 
myself even while I replay the scene:
my student comes red-rimmed
to me and starts to spill&mdash;
her work unfinished, her essay 
(Bradbury&rsquo;s images of innocence 
and corruption) not started. She&rsquo;d found
a lump. A surgeon would have to cut. 
She was scared. She was sorry, her work 
unfinished. I did not curse her small fault.
Forgave it. No matter that essay. No curse
for her, only for me&mdash;the cockeyed cut 
of the grapefruit&mdash;while my son, 
couchbound in mother&rsquo;s arms, roasts
with his third day of fever. Unable to walk. 
Tottering more than usual on new legs. 
And after long today, a third night
I will hold him, wailing him,
him destined to small faults&mdash;
the broken glass, the crayoned wall&mdash;
soothe him with song and hands
until he falls asleep. Until his body
is limp and small, unhearing 
of song, unfeeling of hands.
All this&mdash;but a grapefruit, ruby,
tropical and paradisiac ruby,
split like I can&rsquo;t fucking stand,
two halves uneven, grossly,
no small fault, cursing myself, 
me, me, careless me. No
proportion. No poise. Careless,
careless me: have I taught 
the girl better than I&rsquo;ve taught 
myself? And have I loved 
the boy better than I&rsquo;ve loved 
myself? Which is careless (me)
love. Which is no love at all.

On the Migration of Black Oystermen from Snow Hill,  Maryland to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

I was in a crowded field
and looking for my father. 
I caught enough of a beard 
and reached for a hand 
I thought part of his body.

I did not see the cigarette, 
dangling and lit, 

until it burned my palm.
At my cry, the hand jerked back
while above it thundered words.

This was not my father.
I could not see him anywhere.

I ran across the field
to my mother, my mother 
who enfolded me in her forearms. 

She did not let go.

Neither did I, safe then
from all but my need 
for body and embrace.

Our Lady of Consolation 

Two cops hover over a group of boys
who have their feet spread and their hands 
pushed up against an azure-tiled wall 
outside the Blue Jay. 

One of the twins is in the lineup, 
and when I see him, I stop short 
on my way to the trolley. The twins&rsquo; names
are DaVon and DeVon, 

and the older one is bigger, say the neighbors.
But I can&rsquo;t tell them apart, and not when one twin 
passes by without the other. I just know
they both go by Von, 

and I can&rsquo;t go wrong. The drunks congregating 
around the scene mumble that the cops 
want the boys against the Blue Jay for a rash 
of Avenue stickups. 

I can&rsquo;t understand that. Whichever Von this is, 
maybe he&rsquo;s into bad shit off the street, 
but on the street he calls me, Mister Iain,
and when he says it, 

he looks me in the eye. The other Von too. 
The worst they&rsquo;ve done in my sight: throw 
empty liquor bottles onto the train tracks 
below our blind alley. 

Nothing I didn&rsquo;t do as a kid. Nothing 
I haven&rsquo;t seen grown men do. And I never
saw it happen again. The smaller of the cops
standing over the line

is still a big, bullnecked guy, and when he orders 
Von to turn around and face him, he also shoves 
a shoulder blade, spinning the boy forward. 
I see Von see me,

and say, Leave him alone&mdash;he&rsquo;s a good kid, 
and the other cop, the real big one, stares me down
as if he just witnessed me smash and grab 
in broad daylight

and can&rsquo;t wait to slam me into the concrete. 
I back up farther into the crowd, which has grown
as people waiting for the always-late 15 trolley
join the drunks. 

The smaller cop starts barking at Von and his friends. 
I can&rsquo;t hear their responses, can just see them shake 
and nod, shake and nod until, with a final push for Von,
the cops let them go. The friends split 

in different directions, a pair of them north up 29th, 
a pair east on Girard, and Von by himself to the west. 
I wheel around the crowd and think to catch him up, 
but he&rsquo;s moving fast, 

and I can see the trolley car at the 31st Street stop. 
I call after him, Von, you okay? And he calls back, 
Yeah, Mister Iain&mdash;I&rsquo;m okay, but he doesn&rsquo;t turn 
to look at me, keeps his head 

cocked down and walks toward our street. 
When the trolley creaks to the corner, 
he&rsquo;s halfway down the block. I climb the stairs, 
and drop in my token,

which hits the other coins in the fare box 
with a dull clink, metal on metal, like the jangle 
of cuffs a boy doesn&rsquo;t register as he goes 
from cracking jokes 

with friends to rammed against blue tiles 
and the wall.

Iain Haley Pollock

An Abridged History of American Violence

California Penal Code 484

On the Migration of Black Oystermen from Snow Hill,  Maryland to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

Our Lady of Consolation

The Blue Jay Restaurant (29th & Girard)

Brewerytown

Second Line

The Lieutenant, Returned

Iain Haley Pollock

Arriving in America

Ghost, Like a Place

An Abridged History of American Violence

California Penal Code 484

On the Migration of Black Oystermen from Snow Hill, Maryland to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

Our Lady of Consolation

The Blue Jay Restaurant (29th & Girard)

Brewerytown

Second Line

The Lieutenant, Returned

On the Migration of Black Oystermen from Snow Hill,  Maryland to Sandy Ground, Staten Island