For John Lewis
This Artemis country, helping deliver you
With a lead pipe, baseball bat, and a kick
To the ribs like response to your kicking
From 20 to 24 weeks old in a stomach,
In awe of what exactly? You recalled
Pandora’s box with sickness, death, racism,
And trouble—had a little good in it, the little
Enough to anger, stir up by sinking soup
From your hands, instead of a silver spoon
The country forgot while feeding you
At the blacks-only counter. It sounded like
It was raining through the wall,
Fiskite, but that must be the water
Heater of your apartment, 80 stories high—
Mine is in the closet and must trouble someone
Else—trouble with the little good in it, little
Enough for neighbors to hear me destroy
The smut from outside, leaving my brown skin.
