I, Black Man
I can’t love daintily, can’t chase dragonflies, I’m too busy dodging
vultures. I’m supposed to carry you to an island of bliss, but I’m busy
stilling jungles in my head, settling spiders in my gut-lining. So much
expectation on me—burdens handed on a platter. Too busy building
a barricade to protect the household I’m not projected to have with scraps
I never saw in my childhood of sour shortcomings. I can’t love daintily.
I’m too busy wrestling with truth, sketching myself with all the answers
because you look to me to be a fountain and a bridge and the tower you
want to reside in. I can’t blare out my burning to stand on top of the crest
as a father, supposed to pass glory onto my offspring but barely have enough
for my own flame; I have to swallow cinders grow tusks with my permanent
teeth. I have to shovel insecurity below the Earth’s mantle in order to be your
monsoon man at all times, nothing woven from the rainbows, only rocky
outcrops. I have to hold up my ego like an oracle, let it beam like a lighthouse
to keep your attention. I have to keep a canyon between me and your arms
that stretch to caress me to a dandelion. I have to wrap yellow tape around
the tumors of my heart, keep my pride in a gated chamber. I can’t love daintily;
I have to love you like a wound that needs staunching because there are too many
wars waiting on me, too many targets, too many white flags to be planted;
I can’t be a lilac bush, but have to be a headstone—hard, unafraid of death;
there’re too many corpses populating my race, too many punctures to the
underworld rigged on my path. I have to preserve my tongue when I face
white racists—nudging until they get a wildfire, instead, I have to cup butterflies,
have to bulletproof my zeal to make sure I can shimmer out of darkness that
runs rodents to suicide. There are those who want a chunk of my light. I,
black man have to stun the world like a meteor before I devote my life to love.
Galaxy of Daffodils
I am ten and I am a sunflower caught in barbed wire
a colossal gate between me and the sun
Mama I know you are doing the best you can do … but it won’t do
my aunt is a nightly whispered prayer
I am eleven and I am a silent blues
my aunt steps in like a moonrise teaches us
the art of sharing nothing’s ever for one person
keeps the room lit until we understand our homework
I am thirteen my aunt makes a father for me
with her son’s father he is a rough breeze on the back of my neck
rooting me to the finish line to become more than
bark on a tree but the oak itself his deep octave note
young men need motivation and obedience to thrive
I am fourteen my aunt teaches how to love back
and how to love others as precious as a black daisy rising
from a red rose bed I am sixteen standing
in a pasture of pain my aunt is a vibrant echo
there’s light for those who don’t fall under the hemisphere
who keep what haunts them at bay
my aunt is leading me to light
but doesn’t hold my hand tells me to let the past be the soil
let it harvest strength I am thirty-two now
rolling in a galaxy of daffodils
more abundant than I could imagine stemming into
a story-teller because of you
who grow seeds not your own but like your own
poems are not enough for you who are the gardener
take these marigolds laid here across this page
take this
as a temple in your backyard this marble courtyard with mosaics of iris
let it be yours snow-white hot springs steaming into
the words thank you
a horseback ride to unforgettable
I ask the wind to break its back for you to bear a meadow of children
holding magnolias in your honor
I am a floating fountain
in your landscape
The Sound of Butterflies
I have visions of a hammer swinging
into my face sideways through a car window
and though strapped in a seatbelt, there I go
there goes the first and last time Grandma said she loved me
a deep rasp on the phone
there go the blueberries I pushed up my brother’s nose
as if he knew at three how to blow them out
there goes my Jenga playdate with the shrink
in the glossy building like an elevator into heaven
there go baby teeth, the tooth fairy never came back once
after that first time
and now teeth tumble down my chest, clog my throat
there goes creeping late to watch the grown-folks dance
beers sparkling through their hands
there goes Mama, clang of sorcery in the kitchen
barbecue chicken and fried okra
there goes thunder at my cousins’ like a beast breaking out of a cellar
there go birds on power lines, birds who spoke my language
there go canned goods I helped store at the shelter
standing on a vanilla-colored stool to reach the counter
and there goes my nose, another whack, until it craters
there goes the bedsheet Mama used for a curtain to block the early sun
when we were sleeping on thin foam
there goes food the church congregation blessed us with
there go my belting melodies in the fan soon after a tail-whipping
there go those deep dial tones before our prank calls at the pay phone
there goes the snowball fight with my aunt when she broke her glasses
in the tail of winter when school cancelled
there goes my canoe that drifted in the lake too far
beyond where students were allowed to paddle, where the thrill was
another strike, my cheek bones become gravel
there goes my aunt again crooning out crying sounds while washing dishes
calling it soulful
there goes the hilly walk through the zoo where Mama had to sit on the bench
near the flamingoes
there goes my first S-Curl texturizer dripping down the kitchen sink from my roots
there go the chocolate chip cookies I baked with a whole cup of salt
there goes my stroke of the black and white keys after Für Elise
and blood flows into a thousand tributaries across my face
there go the barbers paying me Christmas Eve for being the best shop sweeper in Norcross
there goes Six Flags, where I rode the Free Fall with Mama
the closest we ever sat since I was three
there goes A Song in the Front Yard, the Gwendolyn Brooks poem I ripped
out of a library book
there goes my business teacher saying show your intelligence
as if we had abandoned brilliance to fit in
there goes the pink baby shoe I found for a customer’s daughter
there goes my homie gulping down Panda Express, mumbling
you can’t live for free
this swing, now the head of the hammer hooks into my socket
there go the narrow dress shoes pimp-walked
over my high school graduation stage
there goes my first game of spades college homies taught me
there goes the rope that tied me up in the fireplace on stage
and paper-made ashes, playing a burglar
there goes my name in bold for Employee of the Month on McDonalds’ marquee
there go my footprints on Jimmy Carter’s peanut farm
there go the seagulls soaring near while I parasail
there go the stallions brown and black for miles and miles along Interstate 45
there go my voyages of return, home again like a tourist
there goes my hand I pray that is not on the handle of that hammer
and this swing, my screeching softens into the sounds of butterflies
Header photo by robert_s, courtesy Shutterstock.