Sitcom

Editor’s Note: This poem is part of “On Reconstruction,” a project about America’s most radical experiment.

A rabbit tried to kill Louise Once when I was a kid. I’m saying Louise now But I’d have said Miss Louise then, as she On our screens once a week Wearing blues I haven’t seen Since, her long hair curled, Combed out, and pushed up Into a volume so thick, you felt Both the power of an Afro and The requirement of a relaxer On a woman rounder than most Of her penthouse neighbors, Hair that wouldn’t move No matter how much she Shook when she yelled At her husband or when Trapped by a man Dressed as a rabbit who Wielded a snub-nose .38 Special We thought scary before We knew what an AR-15 Could do. Miss Louise Never sang, but she had a voice That left you wondering How singing might sound On her. She was that beautiful. And dark. They had a grown son. She wasn’t a young woman. By the time I saw the Halloween Rerun, the youngest men In my hometown had organized Themselves into colors, red and Blue. They were patriots. Like Patriots, they’d shoot. And They’d shoot each other too. They’d shoot you if you Accidentally scuffed their shoes At a club or a concert. They’d Shoot driving by from their cars Into houses and parks. They’d Sell you something so good, You’d sell our TV to get more Of it. And I cannot say I didn’t Love them. They killed my first Girlfriend—a stray bullet meant For her brother—and I loved Them. They killed my cousin, But some of them were my Other cousins, and I still loved Us in all my fear of our gold Teeth and oversize Dickies. They’d kill me today, yet remain A problem I mean to solve. I’m grown now. I know Louise Was the star of the show, The leading lady. No writer Would kill her off on a sitcom. Murder is meant for real life. Anybody can get a gun, but Nobody kills Louise Jefferson. There is a place where Black people don’t die, A deluxe apartment in the sky. All week, I worried about the next Episode. Mornings, I’d dress Myself and my little sister, Making sure we wore nothing That looked like the flag, and When the appointed night fell, The jokes were still funny, The rabbit apprehended. The white rabbit didn’t murder The Black lady, no, not on TV.