by Dallas Klein
1.
Nothing sweeter than the kids laughing,
their light brown hair—curls like capturing
an afternoon breeze in a mason jar—bounce
as I pull them in our red wagon.
Our first Fourth of July in our new home.
J holds my hand. We are all excited to see
the parade, the fireworks.
The sun, tired from celebration, surrenders
to the hillside. Drowsy summer sky interrupted
by crack-sizzle red and blue and gold.
Smile interrupted by a man’s voice,
you only live here because your husband’s white.
Another firework bursts and J is still
laughing with the kids, no longer holding my hand.
2.
The president— The baby boy—a brown hand,
as a characterized balloon, no bigger than a monarch butterfly—
an overdose of helium, reaches from behind metal bars.
a man-child flying Wings singed, no one on the other side
over London streets tied to a string. to reach back. Alone, his mother cries
The crowd laughs, heckles— and the American guard claims her sorrow
humorous anger. is in the wrong language.
About the Author
Dallas Raquel Klein is a Chicana poet form central Texas. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University and works for a nonprofit in Austin called Free Minds. Her work is interested in embodiment, interrogating power structures, and making connections between human and nonhuman. Her poem, "Cobalt China," can be found in Angles Literary Magazine Issue No. 4.
