Poems
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When Mama Sang the Blues
I hated the blues because Daddy hated them more. He came home from work. The 33’s spinning under diamond tips. Mama nursing a cold one instead of shoving cornbread into a hot oven or sautéing onions for smothered steak. Mama’s blues came by invitation liberation flowed through gold-capped teeth. Blues stole my mama made her backtalk her angry man. Whoever said a black woman was always liberated didn’t walk in my Mama’s pumps. Her blues erupted like crude oil in the middle of a pristine lake without notice. Mama nursed a black eye after salty talk crushed Schlitz cans stacked on our dining table instead of dinner. First published in Cultural Weekly |
Warning: disturbing content about global pigs
1
I remember the feast of my first luau
I could tell you about the drinks, native songs,
buffed Polynesian men brandishing flaming batons
but lean in and listen while I tell you about the roasted pig,
the spit shined burnished skin, crispy mouth wrapped
around a wrinkled apple
the animal’s singed eye sockets ringed
with cherries and pineapples
its body reposed on a carpet of lettuce, scattered wedges
of watermelon and grapes decorate the pork platter.
Hold that image.
2
Now let me tell you about the rape
of Eritrean women spoils of conflict.
Men declared war but woman and children died.
One young woman ripped from her village
12 soldiers zealous to ruin their enemies’ wives
thrust and spent themselves inside her womb
12 hours she begged and wept.
3
The men thought they killed
her to send a message so they packed
her tight with rocks, glass, sticks, and trash
stuffed her like a pig shocking
the attending physician as each bloody piece he pulled
clinked when dropped inside the tin bin by hospital bed.
4
Half dead the woman’s thin legs unable to stand
remembered how the men tossed her battered
and bloody in the gold soil that clung
to their shoes forever a testimony against them
and roasted pigs.
Hold that image the next time you dine on swine at a luau.
First published in Spectrum
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Dying for Killer Shoes
In memory of Tevin Price 3 thugs pumped 3 slugs into an almost man a child’s IQ trapped in a body size too big for his mind breast milk still on his breath mama left her son unattended he was killed within a minute another black boy met a bloody ending a constant task for coroners collecting body bags what you don’t know can kill you 3 thugs pumped 3 slugs into an almost man his plasma and platelets released an O negative flow at a Crenshaw carwash destroyed weekly family ritual now, mother’s son memories framed beside wilted roses bordered by yellow flames burning behind dark-haired white women painted on glass jars praying to no one and casting shadows in a neighborhood that sees its young expiring before due dates what you don’t know can kill you 3 thugs pumped 3 slugs into an almost man murdered innocent feet ignorant of the streets his Chuck Taylors defied unknown rule he nor his mama were schooled on wearing red-colored shoes he begged her for. First Published in Leimert Park Redux Anthology |
Some Reassembly Required
(For Timothy Washington, an artist of Leimert Park)
From Leimert’s curbs, you collected castoffs,
shell casings and abandoned flags
picked up free things off avenues and boulevards
you said anything holding your attention
3 seconds--deserved another form
of recognition.
I sat at traffic lights studied
junk tossed in gutters
and thought of you in a good way.
Black Renaissance Man in retrospective
exquisite exhibit at local venues
picked through trash like a
schizophrenic hoarder to increase
your eclectic collection of rusted chrome,
broken floral plates, and
anything holding my attention three seconds
between stop lights,
canvaseing roads for the lost
earring, and pieces of matted weaves
to deliver to your urban clinic, studio refuge
of old, mismatched castoffs
ghetto detritus spit-shined like boots
you shopped thriftily for porcelain China
I gasped when you cracked it fine
You said Sometimes you have to
destroy something beautiful to
make something great.
Your words were like Italian chocolates
I swallowed them without chewing
classically trained at Chounaird, a
neighborhood icon with
bold disciples all over LA, pluck
scattered shards of plastic red, yellow, white
blinkers, broken tail lights
special delivered bits and pieces
of smashed up lives
harvested from Degnan Street
we celebrate your stained-glass vision
re-fashioned into images of a
black-eyed peas and cornbread statue
keeping company with a full metal-breasted woman
while a big butt goat wearing clay shoes
stands guard underneath a cross bearing washboard
reassembled into a man, made of cotton, tinted glue
sea shells and metal
First published in Leimert Park Redux Anthology
(For Timothy Washington, an artist of Leimert Park)
From Leimert’s curbs, you collected castoffs,
shell casings and abandoned flags
picked up free things off avenues and boulevards
you said anything holding your attention
3 seconds--deserved another form
of recognition.
I sat at traffic lights studied
junk tossed in gutters
and thought of you in a good way.
Black Renaissance Man in retrospective
exquisite exhibit at local venues
picked through trash like a
schizophrenic hoarder to increase
your eclectic collection of rusted chrome,
broken floral plates, and
anything holding my attention three seconds
between stop lights,
canvaseing roads for the lost
earring, and pieces of matted weaves
to deliver to your urban clinic, studio refuge
of old, mismatched castoffs
ghetto detritus spit-shined like boots
you shopped thriftily for porcelain China
I gasped when you cracked it fine
You said Sometimes you have to
destroy something beautiful to
make something great.
Your words were like Italian chocolates
I swallowed them without chewing
classically trained at Chounaird, a
neighborhood icon with
bold disciples all over LA, pluck
scattered shards of plastic red, yellow, white
blinkers, broken tail lights
special delivered bits and pieces
of smashed up lives
harvested from Degnan Street
we celebrate your stained-glass vision
re-fashioned into images of a
black-eyed peas and cornbread statue
keeping company with a full metal-breasted woman
while a big butt goat wearing clay shoes
stands guard underneath a cross bearing washboard
reassembled into a man, made of cotton, tinted glue
sea shells and metal
First published in Leimert Park Redux Anthology
