Jessica Bansbach
“He’s a musician.”
It seems that in praising him
I have created a codeword
Of candy-coated bigotry.
Downed sweetly with wine, they instead hear:
“He’s not like the other members of his race.”
The caged Hispanic sings
Because it’s the only way we’d ever want to hear him.
The poster child smoothed and shopped
To remove his frays.
Hard work is more marketable behind the face of Hammerstein
Than the counter of a convenience store.
The Box in My Room
An ancient piece of chocolate
Pillaged from church
Squirreled away for spoiled dinners
And aged with mold
A paperback heart
Folded and unfolded in nervous palm
With words from my first love
Scratched in lead ink
Almost an illusion
Birthday cards
From a friend long deceased
Who went behind oak doors
Never came out
Old jokes
Old laughs
Old phone case
Old thoughts
My hands wipe away the dust
But it can’t be truly lost.
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