<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div class="">Unrest in Baton Rouge</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""> <span style="font-size: 14px;" class=""><i class="">after the photo by Jonathan Bachman</i></span></div><div class=""> </div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Our bodies run with ink dark blood.</div><div class="">Blood pools in the pavement’s seams.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Is it strange to say love is a language</div><div class="">Few practice, but all, or near all speak?</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Even the men in black armor, the ones</div><div class="">Jangling handcuffs and keys, what else</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Are they so buffered against, if not love’s blade</div><div class="">Sizing up the heart’s familiar meat?</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">We watch and grieve. We sleep, stir, eat.</div><div class="">Love: the heart sliced open, gutted, clean.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Love: naked almost in the everlasting street,</div><div class="">Skirt lifted by a different kind of breeze.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Tracy K. Smith </div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><img apple-inline="yes" id="C6A51382-6501-45A1-B7C2-C558AAD4AF9F" src="cid:5B7F85ED-2341-41ED-87DF-0BB6F387A798@gateway.sonic.net" class=""></div></div></body></html>