Four Months

by Matthew Stokdyk

part i, 11/9/2016

A quiet day on campus mall,
and only white men smile—
my head is bowed, my back is bent
along this silent mile.

I study hard the pavement’s grain,
my eyes I cannot raise.
And as I walk this endless track
I meet a hateful gaze.

He looks at me with sneering eyes
beneath a brim of red—
and though I’m sure he called me all,
I heard no words he said.

I raised my face and looked at him
without an ounce of ire—
and on I walked along the path,
untouched by tongues of fire.

And on we walk, with heads held high,
without a pang of shame—
and though we fear this chilly fall,
the world will know our names.


part ii, 3/9/2017

an oval room that’s now bedecked in amber
(fair Catherine’s greatest treasure),
once plundered by a fascist hand
(and plundered still, perhaps);
hail comrade, hail—
someone ought to tell Trumbo
that McCarthy failed.

a bust of Churchill sitting there
and watching on

the oilman holds our Mother by the nape
(can you see her flowing tears?)
and though we cry against the rape
the money stuffs the oilman’s ears

as each order is turned to the placid cameramen
standing silent all around
documenting the feeble hand
sunk in pockets
that sag to the sulfured ground.

The April rains, through stormy strife,
come here to give the flowers life;

and would that art not wilt
(if it ever truly bloomed?)
before the butcher’s hand
when paint from cuts is spilt
words penned for doom
by a shaking hand

but underneath this fatal reign
and greying skies
it seems our hopes will flower up
if but to die

Churchill didn’t really say
the cause of defense was art;
so his face offers only a disapproving glance.

so let us say it;
we might never have another chance.