Just a White God - Poem

African American Review, Winter, 2000 by Rochelle Robinson

When winter's dry mouth licks the deep rich earth,

rich folks rub the sleep from their eyes,

brush the lint from their clothing,

bend down and actually touch the untouchables.

This amazing event only occurs when nature is asleep:

the human become humane.

When Christmas comes, the homeless and loveless bloom like

The mirrored floor of a glazed suburban lake

pushes screaming fat grandmothers, laughing at their clumsiness,

poinsettias.

tripping over words like soldiers tripping over land mines in wartime.

Young birds hungrily chirp and grope at the air

Like hungry mothers and children, starving in Bosnia, in Rowanda,

in South America or South Central.

My hand, digging into this cold white fluff

which has fallen for over a hundred wars, makes a weapon,

transforming this park into my brother's and my battleground.

We trace wings in its whiteness

with arms and backs.

We write our names

with our penises in cursive.

We pray to God

that this feeling never ends,

that the only death

we know,

we enjoy,

returns next December.

Rochelle Robinson is Assistant Professor of English at Olive-Harvey College in Chicago, Illinois.