by Pat Parker
the quiet man.”
Sister, I do not understand.
I rage & do not understand.
In Texas, he would be freed.
One Black kills another
One less Black for Texas.
But this is not Texas.
This is California.
The city of angels.
Was his crime so slight?
George Jackson served
years for robbery.
Eldridge Cleaver served
years for rape.
I know of a man in Texas
who is serving 40 years
for possession of marijuana.
Was his crime so slight?
What was his crime?
He only killed his wife.
But a divorce I say.
Not final, they say;
Her things were his
including her life.
Men cannot rape their wives.
Men cannot kill their wives.
They passion them to death.
The three sisters
of Shirley Jones
came & cremated her
& they were not strong.
Hear me now –
it is almost three years
& I am again strong.
I have gained many sisters.
And if one is beaten,
or raped, or killed,
I will not come in mourning black.
I will not pick the right flowers.
I will not celebrate her death
& it will matter not
if she’s Black or white –
if she loves women or men.
I will come with my many sisters
and decorate the streets
with the innards of those
brothers in womenslaughter.
No more, can I dull my rage
in alcohol & deference
to men’s courts.
I will come to my sisters,
not dutiful,
I will come strong.
Autumn Morning
(for Shirley)
Tree –
that lives
& feeds
& feels
–from the living
–from the dead
you grow.
Tree –
in time,
i will move
in dawn stillness,
with you.
Her children arise up, and call her
blessed…
Proverbs 31:28
when i was a child
i was punished –
i refused to say
yes sir & yes mam.
i was – they said
disrespectful –
should extend
courtesy –
defer to age.
i believe
respect
is earned –
does not come
with birth.
now, my mother
is dying
& i wish to say
so much
to thank her
to say – i love you
to hold her in my arms.
these things
i cannot do/
we have too
many years
of not touching –
of not saying
instead – i sit
& watch her sleep –
see her breathe –
labor
cringe at the tubes
in her body/
watch the strength
seep away
i am afraid of death
fear to touch a cold body
yet, i know
in the final viewing,
i will lean over my mother
& whisper in her ear –
yes mam, mama, yes mam.
there is a woman in this town
she goes to different bars
sits in the remotest place
watches the other people
drinks till 2 & goes home – alone
some say she is lonely
some say she is an agent
none of us speak to her
Is she our sister?
there is a woman in this town
she lives with her husband
she raises her children
she says she is happy
& is not a women’s libber
some say she is mis-guided
some say she is an enemy
none of us know her
Is she our sister?
there is a women in this town
she carries a lot of weight
her flesh triples on her frame
she comes to all the dances
dances a lot; goes home – alone
some say she’s a lot of fun
some say she is too fat
none of us have loved her
Is she our sister?
there is a woman in this town
she owns her own business
she goes to work in the day
she goes home at night
she does not come to the dances
some say she is a capitalist
some say she has no consciousness
none of us trust her
Is she our sister?
there is a woman in this town
she comes to all the parties
wears the latest men’s fashions
calls the women mama
& invites them to her home
some say she’s into roles
some say she hates herself
none of us of us go out with her
Is she our sister?
there is a woman in this town
she was locked up
she comes to many meetings
she volunteers for everything
she cries when she gets upset
some say she makes them nervous
some say she’s too pushy
none of us invite her home
Is she our sister?
there is a woman in this town
she fills her veins with dope
goes from house to house to sleep
borrows money wherever she can
she pays it back if she must
some say she is a thief
some say she drains their energy
none of us have trusted her
Is she our sister?
once upon a time, there was a dream
a dream of women. a dream of women
coming together and turning the world
around. turning the world around and making it over
a dream of women, all women being sisters.
a dream of caring; a dream of protection, a dream
of peace.
once upon a time, there was a dream
a dream of women. for the women who rejected the
dream; there had only been a reassurance. for the
women who believed the dream – there is dying, women,
sisters dying
once upon a time there was a dream, a dream of women
turning the world all over, and it still lives –
it lives for those who would be sisters.
it lives for those who need a sister
it lives for those who once upon a time had a dream.
NEW WORK
Great God
I saw God today.
He wore a Van Heusen shirt
with a Brooks Brothers suit
Stacy Adams shoes
& a Stetson hat.
I saw God today.
He drove a white Lincoln
with red upholstery
power steering, safety belts
& a torn Goldwater sticker.
I saw God today.
He stopped at the drugstore
bought Time magazine
got a shoeshine
tipped the boy a dime.
I saw God today.
He read about Vietnam
took his family to see Mary Poppins
bought 3 popcorns, 2 grapes & a lime.
I saw God today.
He played a round of golf
told a nigger joke in the clubhouse
gave his maid the day off –
to get married.
Between the Light
all
the sounds
moving
swinging
past
me
and you
moving
swinging
drift
in/out
fear not little children
sounds
beating a fast temp
and you
and i
caught
dancing
between the light
Sublimation
It has been said that
sleep is a short death.
I watch you, still,
your breath moving –
soft summer breeze.
Your face velvet
the tension of our love,
gone.
No, false death is not here
in our bed
just you – asleep
& me – wanting
to make love to you
writing words instead.
Massage
(for Margaret)
In the days following my mastectomy
my body was covered in bandages
mountains of tape hid the space
where my breast had been,
piled so high
the breast was still there.
My body numb
hard like my mother’s body
in her casket
and I mourned
mourned for the passion gone
and I numbed my mind
No one had seen my body
except for my lover and my surgeon.
I protected my friends from robes,
my gymmates with towels
protected myself
no looks of horror
pity
disgust
Let the numbness be still.
I had a massage appointment
and I brought my numb self
turned my body into bread
for your hands to knead and mold
to stroke the tension
away
away
away
Like the fine bread I rise
my body loose and smoother
tensing
passionate
and I want to sing
I reawake
I want to kiss you
instead I say thank you
and go home.
Reputation
Has anyone ever wondered
as I wonder
why
Fred Astaire
is hailed as the greatest
dancer in cinema HIStory?
I’ve watched him
spin, twirl, even tap
across the screen
with Ginger Rogers
And each time I see them
do the same dance
dance the same steps
I can’t help but notice
she’s the one
doing it
in high heels.
Progeny
Three young Black women
descendants of three dead Black men
sit in a row
on a syndicated tv show.
Medgar, Martin, and Malcolm
their progeny tells of
growing up orphaned
by assassins’ fury.
One tired white man
bold enough to ask
he proudly states
what others think
in silence.
“Why are we still
bringing this stuff up?
Black folks are doing fine, now.”
Eleanor Bumpurs 66 Black dead
Clifford Glover 10 Black dead
Allene Richardson 64 Black dead
Randy Evans 15 Black dead
They are all dead
and doing fine, now.
I listen as Ms. Evers
tells how her father
taught his children to
drop to the floor
and crawl at the sound
of any loud noise
crawl away from danger.
She crawled that night
in Mississippi
her father on
their front porch dying
as she crawled.
And I think of my daughter
my beautiful child
who will never know
the sense of exploring
on a walk to school
because I am too fearful.
Is it time to teach her?
Must she learn to crawl?
I remember the lessons
say ma’am and sir
cast your eyes down
don’t show your feeling
be home before dusk.
The voice of Ms. King
brings me back as
she says no, I
have not recovered
I will never recover
but I had my mother
and she was strong.
Those strong mothers.
Media images fill my vision
weeping women, quiet women
stunned women, angry women
dressed in funeral black
trailing flower-heavy coffins
with their babies in them.
Emmett Till’s mother was strong.
Bobby Hutton’s mother was strong.
Jonathan Jackson’s mother was strong.
In the 1980s
in modern day amerika
young Black men have a
1 in 200 hundred chance
of being killed before
the age of twenty-five.
All the strong mothers-to-be
who will trail those coffins.
And I think of my child
my beautiful child
and I am fearful.
Will she trail my coffin?
Will I trail hers?
I hear Ms. Shabazz say
my father was a gentle man
he taught us love
and to respect all mankind.
And I think of my child
my beautiful child
she smiles and laughs
she is fearful of no one.
Is it time now
for her lessons?
I must teach her
to be open
with reservations
to be bold
but caution
to love
and be wary.
I must teach her
to know her past
and not hate
in her present.
She must learn the lessons
of my mother and
her mother before her
and yet I want her to learn
new lessons
lessons not taught to me.
Is it difficult
to teach my child
the beauty of flowers
in a field
at the same time
I warn her about
the dangers of
open spaces.
It’s Not So Bad
It’s not so bad
when your life is
enclosed in parentheses
born
died
definite and final.
It’s not so bad
when the unknown
becomes known
cause of death
time
are projected on
scales and graphs
like tide flows.
It’s not so bad
when friends ask
how are you? and
you see their bodies
tensed
buffered
/> for your answer.
It’s not so bad
as the distance
lengthens
clear walls build
between you and
the healthy ones.
What really hurts
causes heartache
and silent screams
is to watch people
prepare
for your death
and you haven’t.
For Audre
I.
The Black Unicorn is restless
The Black Unicorn is unrelenting
The Black Unicorn is not free.
The Black Unicorn
Who is this bitch?
I mean really
who is this bitch?
She come bopping
into my life
BOLD!
I be sitting in my pad
minding my own business
she come waltzing in
a funnel of energy
fire questions at me
like some 60 Minutes
reporter hot
and the bad guy.
Like where is she from?
I know literally
how she got here.
Been hanging around
with East Bay dykes
and wants to know
where the Black women are
and
to them I am
the Black women.
Now this woman
sits in my house
reads
no devours
my words.
No comment.
Just
clicking and um-humming
then has the nerve
to say
I write good but
not enough.
Push more
take the harder road.
I know her for all
