The Pentecost

My instinct was to look away,
protect my store
of fuel and fire
for future use —
warmth or light, the better.

And I’d seen this too many times
already. It would all follow
trite script set to incite
along a path of broken pavement.

One more watching
seemed worthless to the victim
and not much more
the sick and sorry country.

One more dead black man.

There would be different versions
of the spectacle
available — to taste
and illustration
explaining unrest,
offered parentheses
to summaries
of the day’s news events.

It wasn’t conscience, but curiosity
that I looked at last,
witnessed the slow murder.

I watched the captured images
a second time
changed,
knowing something had changed
and struggling to name it.

Nothing touches the flame
— this flame

what’s finally seen.