Brown
Page 4
he’d say, above the overhead
projector’s buzz—you could manage
without me. He never
could forget a past
only we would remember—
his teacher telling him at graduation
You know you’re only seventeen
& who knows how long this Pacific
Theater might last—They have this new
GI Bill. Get some college first,
Wayne, his name all alliteration,
a tone poem. How
——
could he know
we’d drop the bomb
& end it all? He tried serving
later, even went
to enlist in Korea but was foiled
by a bad back & luck. I tried,
he’d plead the air. How to soothe
a man who woke his whole life
at five & could silence kids
not his own? Who once
drove 45 on the highway he told us
cause Nixon asked
——
his fellow Americans to, counting
each unpatriotic car that passed him
along the way? Like history he saved
& scored the immeasurable—
with years-worth of sick days
hoarded & never spent, illness
came to fetch him
from the only other home he knew.
Wearing black now, pointing out
where other kids once sat long before
we were born—future
governors, a crook or two—
——
each chair a ghost. You’re my kids,
he’d tell us, we built or broke
his heart. Next day
he was gone. We never did make it
to Vietnam—rest
of the year in silence we took down
the words he’d written
projected on the wall
like any man’s promises to himself.
The latter half of the twentieth century
felt a bit too cold, winter
lingered too long—Mr. W’s words,
——
unchanged, awaited
us coloreds & women libbers
half-hoping for him
to return—for the world not to be
as cruel as we’d learned.
We spent the Sixties
minus Malcolm X, or Watts,
barely a March on Washington—
all April & much
of May we waited for Woodstock
& answers & assassinations
that would never come
——
among the steady hum
& faint bright
of flickering fluorescent lights.
Dictation
for William O’Neil,
FBI Informant
Teach yourself to swim. Borrowing a car
for a day, joyride eight leagues across
state lines. Catch yourself the moment
before the pigs catch you, hands white
on the wheel. You have the right to remain
etcetera. Officer Le Fervour from the Fraternal
Order of Police will slap you on the wrists,
convince you to join the Panthers. You will
learn to remember your meals, record
conversations, how to write backwards
in the dark. Monitor all nefarious
activity, the Breakfast for Children Program,
the grits, the jelly. Relax and your body will
float naturally. After you become Minister
of Security, Special Agent M will contact you
intermittently to obtain the locations of weapons
and boxes of cereal. All milk shall be burned
in due time. Give your brother sleeping
pills drowned in water so he won’t hear
our fire; after his file closes you’ll see plans
of the headquarterslashbedrooms we drew
from your eyes. You never even raised
a fist. Take your two hundred bones
for years of uniquely rendered service
and keep treading, remembering to breathe.
Booty Green
From the outside he’s a killer
& we know it.
We’ve tried hemming Chris inside,
below the key—
started off playing HORSE
then quickly switched
to BULLSHIT soon as parents
headed on indoors—
come dusk, we begin
telling lies
about length & behind-
the-back shots,
about how sweet
our selves are. We’ve given up
the simon says of Around the World
——
for Booty Green, a game
like 21, only meaner—
blacker, jack.
The rules: are none.
The rules: no fouls
called, no traveling,
no out-of-bounds. Just play,
boy, all elbows & ass
whuppins, fatal angles.
Amri—his name
a lion—barrels down
the lane like a shotgun
bride. Rejected.
Yo mama.
Troy hanging from the rim
——
like a suicide, saving
himself. The shortest,
I let them fight it out
in the paint, preying
on rebounds—believe it
or not—learning to toss up
hooks along the side, their arc
high, sly as a covenant. Mo Fo
of the Sacred Swish, her
holiness. And so
it came to pass—
but we keep it, head instead
for the bucket
as if an endzone, gaining air
like the black balcony
——
of the movie theater, talking
back to the screens
we each post. The ball
popcorn to toss.
Brick. Chump,
I thot you knew.
The Easter we’ve just eaten—
we angel against
each other till borne
by air, gaining ground
on God. Between the garage
& someone’s mama’s
car—Watch the paint,
nigger—we soar
& psych & sing.
——
Here, to stuff
don’t mean your mouth or the Resurrection
bird now splayed
open indoors, but grabbing the rim
like a grenade pin. Not
that I’d know. Fingers round
the hoop, an eye
jabbed soft in its socket—
my glasses fly, a bird
almost extinct. No apology—
cowboying, we pick up
& go again, pound the pavement
to pidgin, palming the ball
the way Chris would grab
smaller boys’ foreheads—
——
Crystal ball, tell me all—
his hands reading fortunes
we pretend we’ll make.
Out here we charge, trying
to father ourselves—
our dads inside, wise,
where it’s still warm.
We laugh at the way
Chris, like the god he thought
he was, took a new last name—
Fontaine—trying to pull down
babes on the rebound. Don’t
know how with that
jheri curl juice. But today, fool,
all our heads are clean
——
as dinner-table talk, as a broke dick
dog. Our dads asleep
in front of the game
or divorced, having dinner
with new families—or alone—
while over dirty dishes
our mothers laugh.
Here on this angly, angry
asphalt, no matter what
the songs say, love or faith
don’t make the grade—
one manchild against the rest,
we dog each other out
so later we can take shots
from the outside
——
where Chris breaks free,
prodigal, almost to the lawn—
his jumper murder. Every sunk
shot sends him to the line,
the rest of us panting
& bent & catching
breath. If he misses
it’s sudden death
& we’re all hoping
to reach 21. Last requests?
he says bouncing
that ball bald
as a granny, or a baby,
two things
we’re trying to prove
——
we’re not. No way,
we holler. Up again
for the rebound, savior
that never comes—the ball falling
like a guillotine, or the pumpkin
the executioner tests it on,
falling like the dark
we barely notice has grown up
around us—the gruff
voice of a father
summoning us inside
to dine on humble pie & crow
before it grows cold.
Brown
for my mother
The scrolled brown arms
of the church pews curve
like a bone—their backs
bend us upright, standing
as the choir enters
singing, We’ve come this far
by faith—the steps
& sway of maroon robes,
hands clapping like a heart
in its chest—leaning
on the Lord—
this morning’s program
still warm
from the mimeo machine
quick becomes a fan.
In the vestibule latecomers
wait just outside
the music—the river
we crossed
to get here—
wide boulevards now
——
in disrepair.
We’re watched over
in the antechamber
by Rev.
Oliver Brown,
his small, colored picture
nailed slanted
to the wall—former
pastor of St. Mark’s
who marched
into that principal’s office
in Topeka to ask
Why can’t my daughter
school here, just
steps from our house—
but well knew the answer—
& Little Linda
became an idea, became more
what we needed & not
a girl no more—Free-dom
Free-dom—
——
Now meant
sit-ins & I shall I shall
I shall not be
moved—
& four little girls bombed
into tomorrow
in a church basement like ours
where nursing mothers & children
not ready to sit still
learned to walk—Sunday school
sent into pieces
& our arms.
We are
swaying more
now, entering
heaven’s rolls—the second row
behind the widows
in their feathery hats
& empty nests, heads heavy
but not hearts
Amen. The all-white
——
stretchy, scratchy dresses
of the missionaries—
the hatless holy who pin lace
to their hair—bowing
down into pocketbooks
opened for the Lord, then
snapped shut
like a child’s mouth
mouthing off, which just
one glare from an elder
could close.
God’s eyes must be
like these—aimed
at the back row
where boys pass jokes
& glances, where Great
Aunts keep watch,
their hair shiny
as our shoes
&, as of yesterday,
just as new—
——
chemical curls & lop-
sided wigs—humming
during offering
Oh my Lord
Oh my Lordy
What can I do.
The pews curve like ribs
broken, barely healed,
& we can feel
ourselves breathe—
while Mrs. Linda Brown
Thompson, married now, hymns
piano behind her solo—
No finer noise
than this—
We sing
along, or behind,
mouth most
every word—following
her grown, glory voice,
the black notes
——
rising like we do—
like Deacon
Coleman whom my mother
always called Mister—
who’d help her
weekends & last
I saw him my mother
offered him
a slice of sweet potato
pie as payment—
or was it apple—
he’d take no money
barely said
yes, only
I could stay
for a piece—
trim as his grey
moustache, he ate
&nb
sp; with what I can only
call dignity—
fork gently placed
——
across his emptied plate.
Afterwards, full,
Mr. Coleman’s That’s nice
meant wonder, meant
the world entire.
Within a year cancer
had eaten him away—
the only hint of it
this bitter taste for a whole
year in his mouth. The resurrection
and the light.
For now he’s still
standing down front, waiting
at the altar for anyone
to accept the Lord, rise
& he’ll meet you halfway
& help you down
the aisle—
legs grown weak—
As it was in the beginning
Is now
——
And ever shall be—
All this tuning