A. L. Nielsen, Poems 

Jocko

In remotest Rhode Island, on a hill far away, stands a government warehouse, the emblem of suffering and shame. And in that warehouse stands a small, black man, washed over and baptized by waves that should detect the slightest movement of this trophy at last laid down. And that warehouse is surrounded by mines, encircled by tanks, barrels bristling in the Rhode Island calm.

No roads lead here anymore. The maps have been altered. No visitors allowed.

And that small black man smiles in mute amusement at the picture he must present, there among his fellows, in his striped jockey suit, cap clapped tightly on his head, his red lips catching the light from the lantern he holds before him, just over the shoulder of another small black man in a jockey suit raising his light at the shoulder of another tiny black jockey.

They smile in silence, rank after rank in their thousands, all raising their lanterns, awaiting their moment.

 The Harrowing of Saint John’s

Upside

Down

Bible

From a Prada

Bag