Neon Vernacular. Yusef Komunyakaa

when they darkened

      The field at halftime

      & a hundred freejack girls

      Marched with red & green penlights

      Fastened to their white boots

      As the brass band played

      “It Don’t Mean A Thing.”

      They stepped so high.

      The air tasted like jasmine.

      We’d shower & rub

      Ben-Gay into our muscles

      Till the charley horses

      Left. Girls would wait

      Among the lustrous furniture

      Of shadows, ready to

      Sip white port & lemon juice.

      Music from the school dance

      Pulsed through our bodies

      As we leaned against the brick wall:

      Ernie K-Doe, Frogman

      Henry, The Dixie Cups, & Little Richard.

      Like echo chambers,

      We’d du-wop song after song

      & hold the girls in rough arms,

      Not knowing they didn’t want to be

      Embraced with the strength

      We used against fullbacks

      & tight ends on the fifty.

      Sometimes they rub against us,

      Preludes to failed flesh,

      Trying to kiss defeat

      From our eyes. The fire

      Wouldn’t catch. We tried

      To dodge the harvest moon

      That grew red through trees,

      In our Central High gold-

      &-blue jackets, with perfect

      Cleat marks on the skin.

       10 The Woman Who Loved Yellow

      Mud puppies at Grand Isle,

      English on cue balls, the war

      Somewhere in Southeast Asia—

      That’s what we talked about

      For hours. She wore a yellow blouse

      & skin-tight hiphuggers,

      & would read my palm

      At the kitchen table: Your lifeline

       Goes from here to here. Someday you’ll fall

      In love & swear you’ve been hoodooed.

      Mama Mary would look at us

      Out of the corner of an eye,

      Or frame our faces in a pot lid

      She polished over & over. After she crossed

      The road, I’d throw a baseball

      Till my arms grew sore,

      Floating toward flirtatious silhouettes.

      A few days home, her truck-driver

      Husband would blast a tree of mockingbirds

      With his shotgun, & then take off

      For Motor City or Eldorado.

      She’d stand at our back door

      Like a dress falling open. Sometimes

      We’d go fishing at the millpond;

      I kept away the snakes.

      We baited hooks with crickets.

      A forked willow branch

      Held two bamboo poles

      As we unhooked the sky. Breasts

      & earlobes, every fingerprinted

      Curve. When we rose, goldenrod

      Left our tangled outline on the grass.

Birds on a Powerline

      Mama Mary’s counting them

      Again. Eleven black. A single

      Red one like a drop of blood