Beside him, his little boy,
smiling, his teeth
only beginning to loosen as he moves from baby to heir. He will grow,
remember his father’s
beauty, the godly meat in that chest. In the back of this crowd,
a young scholar
home from college, brought by his friends who wanted to see
if what their science
professor said was true, that niggers did not feel pain the same
as better men.
Too old for the rowdy festival, someone’s grandfather
remains at home.
An educated-in-the-North patrician who owns the newspaper
that later will run
the story. A savage raised his voice to a man. (One tenor
singing counter
to the other.) Or, he asked for his pay on Friday. Or, he
did not dance
when desired. Or, he did not step off the sidewalk for a lady.
(Should I explain
the Southern Anthropological Equation of lady plus race?)
Her flowered honor
required protecting. The imperative of her womanhood:
ax and gasoline
and black blood. Pig-like screams of what is not a man to the mob,
but a side
of meat. What never was in this place. I will admit these things
in my contemporary
time, but not out loud. My white friends and colleagues
(who are not
My People) would feel indicted by my saying, I look at you and yes,
I’m frightened.
I wonder if you would have sliced off my toe as I hung there, roasting over
the slowest fire
the mob could build. And later, killed my pregnant wife, the baby
still inside her.
I’m a sinner. I fear what I crave. Or love. Part of the falling,
the romance,
is a quandary keeping the present here. The past there.
A liquid-filled jar
of sex in a general store: before that day, its name was Hayes.
He made the mistake
of calling to her. Mary answered, her hand resting on her belly.
DRAFT OF AN EX-COLORED LETTER SENT HOME FROM THE POST-RACE WAR FRONT
A soldier in Baldwin’s Country & I can’t even dance
I say you can’t beat me Each day I get up to face fear
I made money & fixed my credit I escaped you dear my shame
Yet how to escape white space It’s impossible
to return to your embrace to rough-trading sweet vowels
to brothers on corners visiting my dreams I hear your whistles
smell collard greens on suburban wind I love you with deception
I’ll be back I’ll lift as I climb My remorse goes deep
to the whiteness in me my bones Forgive me You don’t know
the trouble I see I can’t tell these folks the truth
They don’t understand me & they don’t try Or try too hard
I want my birthright a mutual sight my own ancient rime
In the bright trenches of the office I open my mouth but choke
on bottled water Last week I returned for your wake
but left before the Home-Going I miss our surviving dark ones
The familiar is trivial & profound The strange a charge
in my blood I clutch & shriek at these strangers I left drums for
I sing B.B.’s mean old song
I END THE WINTER
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer …
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
I end the winter,
discontented and frightened—
an evil child
facing the coming blues,
the weight of glory, of expectation.
This never-ending war.
Every blade I sharpen
is sure of its intentions.
This war and that—
every one God has commanded.
I’m speaking a true word—
when it’s true that any bone
can explain why Samson carried
it into another’s hinterland.
Them bones, hambones,
my-Lord-what-a-morning trombones—
oh please, come with me
to smite the weak.
I know that I know what God
knows, because He lives
in my scripture-singing self,
and since I command the babble
stirring the bricks of their tower,
I am made a godly God
and can piss oceans to replace
dead men’s salt—
but if I were human, I would know this:
the soul has a body of its own
and will walk left or right.
The soul’s flesh will turn,
its sweetness no longer nectar
but unbearable kindred.
This war today:
dry bones.
APOLOGIA FOR SOMETHING
Fall in love with someone’s poetry and thus, fall in love
with that someone. How many times can I explain this?
I’m running out of water. I’m not a child anymore.
I’m talking to you.
I’m talking to myself, repeating a harpy’s creation,
the chatter of disappointed women.
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