So Much for America
By Amaud Jamaul Johnson
I was interrogated via helicopter
while taking a shortcut through
a field I was handcuffed leaving
this post office I was placed in
a line up in the middle of the street
I dress nattily I wear sports jackets
I use rubbing alcohol to keep
my sneakers clean My sweat shirts
with the stitched block letters
from certain colleges won’t stop
complete strangers from searching
my crotch I whisper uncontrollably
I smile when nothing’s funny Gun
at my temple Shit stinging my ear
Is that a knife in your hand I thought
protocol was the scruff of your collar
On the curb On your stomach
Cheekbone on the hood The smell
of good wax I’m so aware of my
body Do you think about your body
Look at your hands Show me your
hands I’m returning to Ellison
I’m surrounded Your surrounded
But I’m always alone
Amaud Jamaul Johnson is the author of three poetry collections, Imperial Liquor (Pitt Poetry Series, 2020), Darktown Follies (Tupelo Press, 2013), and Red Summer (Tupelo 2006). Born and raised in Compton, California, his honors include a Pushcart Prize, the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, the Edna Meudt Poetry Award, the Dorset Prize, and fellowships from Stanford, MacDowell, VSC, Bread Loaf, and Cave Canem. He is the Halls Bascom Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
