Who Are These People
We had lived amicably aloof for years.
Our fence ─ a bed of red knock-out roses.
We swapped hellos, weather forecasts, errant balls.
Their children grown ─ mine growing.
Grandkids visit them several times a year.
I thought them humble, kind-spirited,
content in themselves, content in their community.
Change ripples in ─ a t-shirt for her, a ball cap for him.
If I noticed the letters on his hat, they did not register
until seeing the rally on the evening news.
I shudder “oh my God.” These people
buy my children’s school wrapping paper,
hand out home-made Halloween treats, recycle.
Several days later, a sign planted on their front grass.
Tropicana-orange face glares each time I walk pass.
I retaliate with my candidates’ sign
angled at eye-sight level as they collect the mail.
I approach with logical, factual contentions.
He responds with haranguing heresies, disassembling diatribes.
We escalate from friendly waves to angry scowls,
loss balls no longer lobbed back.
A banner hangs from their eaves like Christmas garlands.
I resort to outdoor floods lit overnight as if to spotlight a stalag.
Untended rose bushes ─ our briars of demarcation
over which he spits Sadducee, I spew Pharisee.
No siren. Flashing lights catch my eye.
From the front window, I watch a body loaded into the ambulance.
Stoic, he stands on the lawn, gripping the sign.
I do not go to console, to hold his hand, to help him make calls.
From me, no food, no solace.
I no longer ask
“who are these people?”
I am these people ─
only a beast thinks a man is a beast.*
*from Michael Kleber-Diggs’ poem My Ultimate Thought is This
Melissa Wold lives on the coast of Alabama surrounded by bays, rivers and the Gulf of Mexico. Her poems explore both the historic and the current world through events, people, injustices and redemptions. She is happiest with her feet in the water and her face turned to the sun.
The Marbled Sigh 