The insult never given, the one never spoken
to you and the ones you love
is the true one, isn’t it? That’s the one
that gets you—the one that’s never spoken.
It’s the one so obvious it is never seen—
just beyond all consciousness, it lurks between
your heroic self-defense and the other; he’s polite to your face,
pacing the debate stage, reasonable, articulate,
listing the sufferings in history of your race.
You arrive home to your family in the evening
and you open a beer and laugh. But a feeling of disgrace
drifts through the window; spring is here.
You turn to your spouse, who has just freshened up and whisper, “dear…”