by Sean Hill

For us the struggle is the myth that’s spelled R-A-C-E.  
In our mother tongues it binds our pride, can sound like almost  
any slur you please or any stereotype you like,  
for where and to whom one’s born guides our sense of this or that  
good or bad in the folks we were born into this world with.  
For us the struggle is the myth; it’s spelled R-A-C-E  
and seems to be the favorite meat of my home—Georgia,  
these United States, come to think of it, and, I dare say,  
folks of nations around this world. This man-made device— 
improvised thing—explodes—a bomb held in the palm of one  
trying to defuse the one-drop rule or blood quantum. I  
fear the fight for us will always be spelled R-A-C-E.  

Poem copyright 2026 by Sean Hill. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Sean Hill on The Fight & The Fiddle: “The State House Aflame, 1833,” “They Shower Us with Kisses or Bullets Depending,” and “How a Father Should Take with His Son.”

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt