Two poems by Rita Dove
Rosa
How she sat there,
the time right inside a place
so wrong it was ready.
That trim name with
its dream of a bench
to rest on. Her sensible coat.
Doing nothing was the doing:
the clean flame of her gaze
carved by a camera flash.
How she stood up
when they bent down to retrieve
her purse. That courtesy.
The Enactment
“I’m just a girl who people were mean to on a bus. . . .
I could have been anybody.”
--Mary Ware, nee Smith
Can’t use no teenager, especially
no poor black trash,
no matter what her parents do
to keep up a living. Can’t use
anyone without sense enough
to bite their tongue.
It’s gotta be a woman,
someone of standing:
peferably shy, preferably married.
And she’s got to know
when the moment’s right.
Stay polite, though her shoulder’s
aching, bus driver
the same one threw her off
twelve years before.
Then all she’s got to do is
sit there, quiet, till
the next moment finds her—and only then
can she open her mouth to ask
Why do you push us around?
and his answer: I don’t know but
the law is the law and you
are under arrest.
She must sit there, and not smile
as they enter to cary her off;she must know who to call
who will know whom else to call
to bail her out . . . and only then
can she stand up and exhale
can she walk out the cell
and down the jail steps
into flashbulbs and
her employer’s white
arms—and go home,
and sit down in the seat
we have prepared for her.
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