Your bumper sticker said White Power; you flew the flag of Dixie from your antenna.
Did he know at first what was going on?
You breathed liquor and malignancy into his brown face, his two days of gray stubble.
Did he aspirate grace as you hog-tied him?
You wore sweat and skull tattoos and pallor and vehemence instead of white linen.
Did he compare his children to yours?
You turned the key in the ignition as your buddies said Fuck Yeah, Man.
Did he water himself with fear?
You laughed in the rear-view as his cocoa skin abraded and broke.
Did he cry out for mercy, like Christ: Eli, Eli lamah sabach thani?
You drew him like a travois behind your horse.
Did his life fulminate before his eyes?
You traversed a scrub-dirt road in the Outback heat of Texas.
Did he walk into the welcome arms of angels?
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