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Driving West on I-75.

 I slam the car door in Richmond
adjust the mirror, tune to black radio.
Wipers flash rain away on the route
toward Charlottesville where I will not stop
because Nazis scared me shitless
on television last week. Shades of my past
in Virginia.
Riding shotgun is Sandra Bland
black garbage bag that hanged her still around her neck.
She says nothing, sits unresisting for the drive.
Traffic stalls, highway still as a grave full of cars,
no news of obstruction.
Thirty minutes of ignorant patience required,
we meet the challenge head on, tongues tied.
Renisha McBride appears behind me
face a gaping gunshot wound in my back seat,
still considerate in her unanswered quest for help in the night,
careful not to bleed black on my upholstery.
Who knows why the traffic clears?
Our trio moves out of rain and mist toward our destinations.
My phone battery edges toward zero percent,
my body wants to release all it holds.
I stop over in the very place I sought to avoid.
For safety, I lock them in the car at the Waffle House.
I pee and drink black coffee while I charge my phone.
When I return they are easy in their places
settled for the journey, joined by Samuel DuBose
who shares the back seat with Renisha.
The left side of his head is missing
from the police shot. He bears his injury onward.
Carriers of my fear, they offer me their presence
and the company of their witness.
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Article Details
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Author:Easter, Mary Moore
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Geographic Code:1U5VA
Date:Sep 22, 2018
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