A year after Ferguson
the stuffed animals are gone.
Cecil's dead, and we're finding bodies
in different streets now.
There are so many—
hands no longer raised,
sides taken and not once changed.
The cops have got themselves
a new chief, the city council has taken on
some color—at last, and the stops while black
have been down. But Canfield Drive
where Michael died? It's quiet,
the memorial candles cleared away
with the button-eyed teddies, replaced
by new pavement and a couple of plaques.
Nothing marks the spot
where the unarmed boy, cut down
eight times, bled out in the hot August sun.
After, West Florissant went up in smoke,
the QuikTrip took a hit, and a hashtag
was borne: for Tamir and Eric, John and Samuel,
Walter and Freddie, Kajieme and Sandra.
What divides still does, like the houses
with the big lawns and the ones without,
like their word and your word and mine.
© 2015 Maureen E. Doallas