Collection 3: Poems, 6.3

I don’t have to tell myself
it’s not a school project for Ms. LeBlanc,
“The Colored Peoples of Freddie’s Diorama.”

The refugees of the mudslides,
refugees of the tsunami,
refugees of Rwanda.

We are aunties,
dry cleaners, cops’ daughters, deacons, cement mixers,
auto mechanics, trombonists without trombones, quartets
scattered, communion servers, stranded freshmen, old
nuns, X-ray technicians, bread bakers, curators, diabetics,
shrimpers, dishwashers, seamstresses, brides-to-be, new
daddies, taxi drivers, principals, Cub Scouts crying, car
dealers, other dealers, hairstylists, too many babies, too
many of us to count.

We are aunties,
dry cleaners, cops’ daughters, deacons, cement mixers,
auto mechanics, trombonists without trombones, quartets
scattered, communion servers, stranded freshmen, old
nuns, X-ray technicians, bread bakers, curators, diabetics,
shrimpers, dishwashers, seamstresses, brides-to-be, new
daddies, taxi drivers, principals, Cub Scouts crying, car
dealers, other dealers, hairstylists, too many babies, too
many of us to count.

Aren’t you ashamed? No.
Of strutting krewe
On Mardi Gras? The Fourth of July?

Black and red spray-painted:
LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT.

For days, before the trucks arrived, before the work
of cleanup, my brother sat on the stoop and watched.

He watched the ambulances speed by, the police cars;
watched for the looters who’d come each day
to siphon gas from the car, take away the generator...

Behind safety goggles, he watched the sand for bones,
searched for debris that clogged the great machines.

Riding the prow of the cleaners, or walking ahead,
he watched for carcasses—chickens mostly, maybe
some cats or dogs.