The following poems represent the steps of my life, evoking vivid images that for some reason or another disturbed or interested me enough to commit them to memory and involve my memories of living in the south which could be simultaneously beautiful and shrouded in a hideous history of oppression.
Poem One:
“How I Learned to Swim”
The echo of splashing water, refreshing like iced cherry coke
Tosses about behind the thick walls of brick and marble.
The concrete path to the pool (ancient and grey, cracked
With lines of green where plants moss or perhaps small clovers
have grown to seek the rays of unrelenting August sunshine) is
surrounded by deadly brown grass, poking hard and sharp
from over-mowing and the wrong combination of pesticides.
I walk in the brief shade of the arches, grateful for my mother’s guiding hand,
(moist, slick and smelling like sunblock) and her diamond engagement ring pressing
Into my flesh while I carry the plastic basket with my aqua blue beach towel in the
Other.
The black and white umbrellas hovering clean above the smooth tiles offer refuge
To parents and nannies who preferred to enjoy the water from afar.
I, instead, gazed at the turquoise lapping against the metal railings,
Jewel-like and precious against the scorch of late summer.
Suddenly, the towel slips from my hand and I turn to pick it up.
It is here I see the words, old and etched into a concrete block above the door.
“This entrance is reserved for members of the colored race.”
I tug at my mother’s skirt, pointing at the words.
She pauses for a moment, explains it is from a long time ago, tussles my hair around my scalp,
Slightly pink from the sun and walks towards a vacant umbrella.
While I stare into the vast blueness before me.
Poem Two:
“Rattles”
I would see the two of them only once in my life,
The pair with grey beards and drinking Mountain Dew
From glass bottles (it was 1996, for God’s sake). They were
Old friends of my great-grandfather who sat smiling
Constantly in a green plastic yard chair and who I seriously
Doubted could remember his own name by this point. The
Dust broke from the gravel and gave their red Ford pick-up
An almost religious sensation as if its bed held something
More than a dead rattlesnake. Patsy Cline was playing from
The car radio where I played horseshoes with my sister and
Cousins and the sweetness of her voice seemed to melt like
A Mars Bar in the teasing heat of April. I suppose the pair
Intended to amuse us, dropping the back of the truck to
Reveal the corpse of a timber rattle snake, shot cleanly at the
Neck so that the head lay only a few feet away. The older of the
Men smiled and I could see tobacco juice stains across his teeth.
The head had captivated me. Bleeding, dangerous, and full of secrets
I would have been better off without. “Hey,” said the younger. “Want
To see a magic trick?” He did not wait for the answer and began poking
The severed head with a metal rod. A meager flop, then the sudden
Burst of an open mouth, the color of clean cotton held against a wound
And the magic was done. The last burst of life had sailed from the now
Open mouth of a creature whose mere presence meant death to me.
Poem Three:
“The World Series”
I retreat from the galaxy of wires and machines,
The sterile glow of numbers and beeps which
Monitor the heart rate of the dying man.
I did not share his blood. I only knew him as
A neighbor. And yet my mother held his hand,
My father gave him ice chips from a silver bowl.
I doubted he knew where he was.
A larger room waited just behind the door.
It was cool and smelled like medicine and
Some sort of chemicals sold in a can to brighten up a room.
She sat in front of the television, harmless, eyes closed
A Braves cap snug over her silver hair, clinging to her scalp
In thin wisps. A tray of food sits in front of her.
Half-eaten meatloaf, untouched mashed potatoes and pudding.
I ask to sit and she makes no reply.
The top of the fourth passes without ceremony.
I never liked baseball but there is nothing to do but wait.
Nothing passes the time but the sound of leather cracking against
Wooden bats and occasional trips to a vending machine
For peanut butter crackers and a cherry coke.
It is October, but the men sweat heavily through the glass.
I struggle to hear, but am afraid of waking her.
It is the bottom of the eighth before I realize it.
A nurse in white tennis shoes and blue pants responds quickly,
Wheeling her away. He returns in ten minutes, takes a seat
On the sofa next to me, spooning chocolate custard into his mouth
From a plastic cup.
“That’s better,” he sighs. “What’s the score?”
Poem Four:
“How I Learned to Drink Beer”
I still remember the forbidden foam
Floating like low tide on top of the amber
Liquid. I am four years old and my great aunt
Has fallen asleep in her favorite chair. Her hair
Tumbles like cigar smoke down her cheeks
And I determine she won’t miss one sip.
My lips pull back from the bitterness and
She sits up laughing in sharp gasps and
Grabs my wrist with her claws (sharp,
Like some avian predator).
The oak shines too bright from the bar
And I think of coffins with expensive brass
Handles. “I get off at 9.”
The bar-tender has written this on the coaster
But I doubt he knows I’m only 15. The sips
Slide down my throat against my will and with
Each spasm of muscle, I feel myself age into
Someone who wants nothing more than a nap
In the high grasses.
I order this beer by my own choice. It’s a vital practice,
I am told. A rite of passage for the 21st birthday, like killing an elk.
I take what I am given and pray that it will be over soon.
“Fuck yourself,” I scream into my brain. “You think that if
You play their game that they won’t come for you.”
I know myself that it is true and
Concentrate on the white and blue Christmas lights
Damning me in the reflection of the brown glass bottle.
Poem Five:
“The Christian Quarter”
I had been warned the pavement was slick
And my shoes had little grip on its surface,
A stubborn ice that would not melt in Jerusalem’s
Heat. I had stopped to look at coins, pressed
And punched with holes. “Palestine, 1947”
One whispers to me in a voice hidden
Deep within ancient bronze. Across
The alley, you too gaze as spices (mint tea,
Sage), Turkish delight packed into metal boxes,
And yards of fabric which unraveled would
Suffocate the merchant who smiles calmly,
Her lips wrapped around a cup of coffee.
Across the wall, we hear a call to prayer
And I feel a tap on my hand. I follow the bones
Up the arm into the purple flesh, cracked and
Concrete-looking wrapped around the face
Of a leper. His eyes hide pink and frantic,
Holding secrets and sadness in the same
Pools of blood. “Where is the kingdom?”
He asks but he knows I don’t know the answer.
“Where is the kingdom?” I shrug and pull away,
Tightening the muscles on my face to show no
Reaction. I gaze down the street of crafted bronze
And the cries of merchants looking for their next sale
But you are nowhere to be seen.
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