Week #3 - Improv

Facing It

       by Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades,

hiding inside the black granite.

I said I wouldn't,

dammit. No tears.

I'm stone. I'm flesh.

My clouded reflection eyes me

like a bird of prey, the profile of night

slanted against morning. I turn

this way--the stone lets me go.

I turn that way--I'm inside

the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

again, depending on the light

to make a difference.

I go down the 58,022 names,

half-expecting to find

my own in letters like smoke.

I touch the name Andrew Johnson,

I see the booby trap's white flash.

Names shimmer on a woman's blouse

but when she walks away

the names stay on the wall.

Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's

wings cutting across my stare.

the sky. A plane in the sky.

A white vet's image floats

closer to me, then his pale eyes

look through mine. I'm a window.

He's lost his right

inside the stone. In the black mirror

a woman's trying to erase names:

No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

    London 1972

              by Pauline Rodwell

My camera clicks,

capturing concrete and glass.

I thought nothing of it,

dammit: No warning sign.

I’m entitled. I’m American.

Unseen eyes chart my every move,

like a terrorist—an IRA type. I maneuver

through parked cars—

I take more pictures of the highrise.

I enter, curious—

needing to know.

The security officer confronts me,

cautious and inquisitive—

asks for ID.

Hoping to go up the elevator,

I ask about the building’s name.

Instead I get the third degree:

Where are you from?

Why are you here?

Why were you taking pictures?

I answer all with patriotic pride.

"The name on my passport matches
the name on the building." He tells me

Her Majesty’s Secret Service

occupies the building

and I am suspect.

He points to agents

inspecting the innocent cars for

any bomb I might have planted.
He radios them to quit.

I apologize and exit.