Lit Mags
When It Gets Hot the Block Gets Loud
Two poems by Birch Wiley
When It Gets Hot the Block Gets Loud
Bed-Stuy Ode
Click to enlarge
Parentheticals
I have, from time to time, been suspected
of goodness. Thankfully, being human,
it’s a difficult reputation
to maintain. Exposed as someone who cuts
in line, gossips incessantly, takes
the larger slice for myself, I’m free
from sainthood. It’s expected
still, of course, that I will suffer
indignities with grace. Some people have war
in their countries—mine is usually the country
manufacturing the war, but they turn
their guns back on us only a little
of the time. A small price to pay, then,
being debated on cable news, counting
the days until the passport expires.
There are those who are impressed, at least,
by how we beg for our lives—so many
of us begging, and for so many lives—but
mostly it’s a thankless job. We’re lucky
enough to be employed as scapegoats,
though, given the market. I unhook
the buttons of my shirt one by one,
just like anyone else. I trust I will
be forgiven, just like anyone else.
