My sluggish brain registers:
my palms, scraping coarse pavement,
male voices, slicing the quiet morning,
and ire, dense as fog.
I struggle to right myself, disoriented
but determined to confront my attackers,
to fight back.
A blow finds my middle, robbing me of breath,
creating a sharp spasm of pain in my chest.
I curl in on myself,
and try to make sense of my assailants.
A foot,
in a work boot,
attached to leg,
attached to a man.
An American man.
A citizen of Cypress Beach.
Bronzed hair and freckled skin,
he is familiar;
he mocked Mama and me weeks ago,
as we walked through town.
He stands with a friend: a blonder, squatter man,
who boasts wicked eyes and a smarmy snarl.
He glares down at me,
then kicks at the sticky, broken glass
and crushed peppermint that litter the sidewalk.
Their derisiveness sends a chill down my spine.
My stomach sours as the men,
stout and steadfast, work to move me.
Off the sidewalk.
