What The Birds Know
—After Jose Olivarez
Like a rolling stone’s mirror image, I have laid my hat in homes
unfit for what love I know to give. I have lingered in the afterglow
of yesterday for years. Longer than any sane man should.
I want to learn what the birds know—how, in lieu of weathering
a winter bound to repeat, they find a new nesting place
beyond grayed skies. I’ve not yet met a cold wind
I won’t shoulder through, never perched on an icy branch
& slipped to the leaves below. Born both Black & here,
I’ve only ever known what wants me gone, & how to meet
that want with my own desire to be unmoved. O, beasts of
feather & talon, you swift, soaring beauties, tell me how to be like you,
averse to seasonal dying, singular in trajectory toward all that is green
& fruit bearing. I want to know your ways, how to live one foot
out the door. How to mount a breeze, & sail to safer harbors.
Sanctuary
If I am not insulted within thirty seconds
of walking into a room, I know I am not
amongst my niggas. Praise the tongues
that paint me with the worst names.
My chaotic choristers, my closest kin
locking in on my leaning sneakers
& nappy ass hair. Smiling with teeth
yellow enough to be a halo, they
crown me. Roast me royal. Stab me
in the gut with soft daggers, all before
I can even shed my coat & pop a squat.
I blab rebuttals bout bygone hairlines,
broken diets, their terribly rolled blunts.
Here, in this sanctuary of slurs, I am
finally enough—though my niggas will
say I am too much, noting the way my
muffin top spills over my waistband
& how a B-cup wouldn’t stand a chance
against my chest. All things considered,
I can think of no place I’d rather be
than in this room rife with chuckles &
boozy breath, situated round a rickety
card table dented with memories of
spades games that got a bit heated.
O, my friends, my niggas, my heart &
heart & heart, I am lost outside any
room not darkened by your shade,
curse me crooked. Mock my mannerisms
& choice of cologne, my sloop footed
gait & obvious bluffs. Rebuff my hot
takes & take the last hot & ready slice
when you see me reaching for it. You
deserve this, the grease, the good &
plenty of a cup of brown & a belly
laugh at my expense. Life is very long,
& so full of woe, it’s best we be here,
sharing cigs & bad advice, thinking about
all the years we’ve had & all the years
we have left.
Three Hearts
I awake to sounds of my dog puking in the kitchen
& my box fan gently humming its dusty aria.
I yawn & scratch, forgetting, for once, to regret
making it through the night. Today, it seems, my
brain is on my side. I trudge to the window, see
the frost night gifted, wonder if my gas tank has
enough for me to warm the engine & make it to work.
Winter has a routine I wish anxiety would employ.
I rouse my boy & cook his breakfast of smoked sausage
& tater tots. We’re sitting at the table gnawing our vittles,
going over numbers & letters between greasy swallows,
when the fact that I will someday be one of his memories
begins echoing in my head loud as a storm siren.
My boy’s voice becomes a spore in my tornado
of alternate endings. & this is not the time. Not as
he tells me the octopus has three hearts, swinging his legs
& grinning like fields of wheat wave & smile at the sun.
