Redemption

Now is the proper time to absolve your white self
for cruelty to tribal neighbors,
hatred of their casinos, contempt for lodges of sweat.

Lie down on railroad tracks
between steel bars laid end to end --
parallels as a kid you placed nickels on

then hid until the whole train thundered past,
fearful coins would cause derailment,
send boxcars grinding down cinder slopes,

smash you in the trees. Instead, they flattened nickels
until buffalo disappeared, turned Indian heads faint,
clacked on their way, left you hopeful

the conductor would be welcomed by his kids,
give thanks before supper, pray for them in bed.
Now, lie silent, invisible, concave,

arms at your sides, breath held in,
head turned, as you listen for the night train.
If all the cars tick past --

no rods or cables drag low,
and suddenly you are alone in dark,
stars again above, only crickets clicking --

you will be redeemed,
free to rise renewed, feel whiteness is goodness,
attend an alabaster church, worship a caramel Jesus,

boast that although not a sacrifice, your ordeal was noble.
You can hate in good conscience
as you wait for the morning train.

Timothy Pilgrim