Heading Down
We shouldn’t raise mixed babies
in the South, Kay says as I drive up the crest
of another hill on our way into Kentucky.
The South, where humidity leaves
a sweat mustache, where a truck
with a Confederate flag painted
on the back windshield skitters in front
of us. In its bed, avoiding our eyes,
a boy with blond hair
split down the middle like a Bible
left open to the Book of Psalms.
His shirtless, sun-licked skin drapes,
a thin coat for his bones, his clavicles sharp.
I want to know who’s driving this raggedy truck.
I want the boy to look at us. I want
to spray paint a black fist over that flag.
I want the truck to find its way
into the ravine. I want to—
Stepping on the gas, I pass the truck,
Kay and I turn our heads. The boy smiles
and waves. The man driving doesn’t
turn his head, keeps his eyes on the road. Kay
turns red as she draws her fingers
into fists. I stare at the whites of her eyes.
Copyright Credit: Douglas Manuel, "Heading Down" from Testify. Copyright © 2017 by Douglas Manuel. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.
Source: Testify (Red Hen Press, 2017)