“Minutes later, the intensity of the flash grenades and gas clouds increased, as the police began pushing protesters out of the park and onto H Street. More people ran in our direction, crying from the smoke and from fear. Someone yelled “rubber bullets,” and I looked up from washing someone’s eyes to see a man holding his stomach, bent over.”—Gini Gerbasi, Rector of St. John’s Episcopal Church, Washington Post

“Outside the gates and across Lafayette Square, some of the officers in riot gear kneeled down and some protesters initially thought they were expressing solidarity as the police have done in other cities, but in fact they were putting on their gas masks.” —New York Times

Trump and the Bible

The President arose from his bunker,
where Secret Service had had him hunker
down, so he didn’t see a single angry face
(angry about how he handles race).
He arose: the Pentagon behind him.
The DEA alongside.
the DOJ ahead of him,
spraying insecticide.
They cleared a path, one block in length;
that he traversed, gingerly, projecting strength.
(An hour before this, the church’s priest
gave water to tired, over-policed
citizens. It was clear where her sympathies lay.)
No matter. Ivanka was beside him. He hadn’t come to pray anyway.
The church was boarded up. The priests, evicted.
The Bible: upside-down, unread, conflicted.
He held it at an awkward angle,
a sort of a thrust, and a kind of a dangle,
to make sure the cameras caught its Bibleness.
He didn’t have much to say. That sort of nimbleness
was far beyond him; so he let the Bible speak.
Beside him, stood the symbols of American power: mute; meek.