I am November 30, 1999,
a day with a rainy morning.

I am the gun pointing in
the face of a pale, defiant
teenager wearing a knitted
cap made by his mother.

I am a peanut butter jar
left on the counter because
someone knew someone else on
the street and lunch had to wait.

I am pepper spray filling
the rubber bullets fired
without mercy by the riot
ready police into the crowd.

I am the opinionated protest
picket front line sign thrust
unapologetically, without
regrets, into the foggy sky.

I am the necktie the delegate’s
wife lovingly picked out,
that now sets him apart,
turning him into Them.

I am the Nike sneakers
laced tightly on the feet
of the black-clad freedom
fighter looting the Nike store.

I am a midnight glint
of curious binoculars peeking
down from the apartments
to the violent, crying streets.

I am bitter blood spat on the
filthy sidewalk by an angry
bruised determined the
man won’t get me down believer.

I am Barnes and Noble,
victimized and ostracized
in the background of a
soon-to-be-infamous photograph.

I am a peace sign made by
the fingers of a collapsed girl
on her knees, protecting her
mouth and nose from the tear gas.

I am a cracked Starbucks
logo shattered to splinters
of dust by a rioter’s fury
and an exploited trashcan.

I am a bundle of flowers
tied with a slip of purple yarn
offered by a trembling grip to
the policemen with covered faces.

I am the broken glass in the
Bank of America, the spray
paint on the news reporter’s
camera, the smoke churning
from black-clad dumpsters ablaze.

I am
the mother, the brother, the
best friend, the son, the co-worker,
the daughter, the husband, the
sister, the wife, the boss, the father,
the lover, the stranger
obsessing over the television,
scouring the news stations for
a face unfamiliar, hoping that
no one I know is down there.

I am scared, uneasy Seattle
teetering on the brink, waiting on
the edge of mourning skyscrapers
unsure of when it’s okay to breathe.