of decedent. somewhere they’re singing sin like gospel
hymns. somewhere a son is given a name & a gun
somewhere there is liquor licking a sister’s breast. some
where there is smoke painting the breath of youth. somewhere
there is a white pill being placed in the punch bowl. some
where a sister is sneaking out an open window.
somewhere there is a brown boy, wrestling with the war
weeping in his chest, a blank page awaiting his breath.
somewhere there is a poem hiding in his heart, scattered
like glass, he is more beautiful when broken. somewhere
•
school: heat rakes skin raw & you find yourself lost in the
mirror, trying to make smooth the flaky flesh resting
on the dirt road of your reflection. your face: a pim
ple stained glass window wearing a million tiny pus filled rea
sons to leave. during lunch you bring bottles of chemi
cal cottage cheese to paint into the sidewalk of your
cheeks. learn words like ugly, crater. they creep into sca
bbing skin & stick like some sort of kick-me sign. cold wa
ter relaxes the skin, school bathroom tissue could be
mistook for cardboard but you use it anyway. learn
to pat, not wipe. hot water kills the germs, rinse your fin
gers, relearn words like love, it is the best adjective
for beauty. you were born without language for perfect
•
you can’t come over unless you pass my mother’s back
ground test. unless my mom spoke with your mom two months be
fore & planned to cook a meal together. unless your
mom makes you wash dishes with scalding water too. un
less your mom has checked for lice & don’t mind Marvin Gaye
sobbing through the stereo. unless my mom knows if
your mom washes her greens before they touch the stove. un
less your shoes stay at the front door too. unless your grades
are better than mine. you can’t come over unless it’s
a weekend & your homework is checked. unless you brought
church clothes & a face towel. unless your mom voted for
Obama, both times. unless you know how to pull a
weed from the root. unless you know: my mother don’t play
•
do you still perform autopsies on conversations
you’ve had lives ago? are you still wondering what gen
der the voice in your head is? is it still asking for
a name? because today you watched him. thought his voice cot
ton candy melting beneath your tongue. his hand: the best
piece of jewelry on the playground. today you don’t
want your hands. think them too rough, too big for your wrists. bend
dangled. 8th grade & god hates the gays. you don’t know words
like spectrum, fluid. weren’t taught their taste, they too sweet &
mother never allowed her boys too much sugar. so
you shift. alter your taste at the altar. become some
thing worthy to call man. they’ll build the closet for you
& spend the rest of their lives begging you to come out
•
night: when heat rakes skin raw & you become aroused at
the sound of thunder, your bed will beckon company
your palms, glowing pink, pulsing like the red bellies of
hungry wolves, will want to migrate south, between steaming
thighs. the fear of sin has settled, something here is grow
ing, your heart is sweating, your chest: a rising river
ready to release. your bed is rockin to the rhy
thm of you, your face wine red, drunk on steam & simul
ated sex, your body thrusting at the thought of him.
he is in your english class, wears his smile soft, his
touch a torch & you are sawdust, you a cotton sky
ready to rain, trembling like flood water. like salt
ed skin, like thunder. roar! rage! release, again. then sleep
•
bro, i loved your poem, no homo. great job in gym to
day, no homo. do you know what’s for lunch, no homo
can i borrow a pencil, no homo. nice hair cut
no homo. did you do the homework, no homo. are
those new shoes, no homo. you got a jump-shot, no ho
mo. can i copy your homework, no homo. what page
number we on, no homo. do you need a ride, no
homo. who you like, no homo. what class you got, no
homo. “kill, marry, or fuck,” no homo. battle me
bro, no homo. you trying out for the play, no ho
mo. when can i come over, no homo. what answer
you get, no homo. you know she like you right, no ho
mo. you should write a poem about me bro, no homo
•
13 & everything is a mirror: & you can’t decide
what to wear. how to please everyone & still like what
you got on. your birthday two months away & mom can’t
find her lipstick, thinks Aunt Charlotte took it. the same
summer Sherman tells you to take off your purple scarf
& you do & you laugh less because Uncle Paul say:
a smiling boy is a sweet boy. so you flex your
jaw & you watch your walk. become a weapon to pro
tect your sisters with. fourteen is a shirt too big for
your meager shoulders, your journals & private browsing.
fourteen ain’t got no room for your pretty words or clean
nails. role models of mechanical tools give you a
hammer to become, so you throw yourself at the glass
GRIEF: THE INCONVENIENT TRANSLATOR
OLD RONDO - AGE 16
for Irene and Mom and those removed
we were ferris wheel watchers. firefly fighters. dollar store cap gun robbers—cops & Sunday-creased collars. private school scholars (giving the church basket the dollars our mothers slipped into our pockets seconds before) we held doors for our elders & snuck to receive communion even though our tongues hadn’t reached their stage of holy. water guns weren’t allowed in our homes
but balloons were so we soaked our summers in battleship. bottled water sipped through naive nine-year-old lips. horizon sunset sitting on jj hill. waiting for those street lamps to call us home before our mothers did & when she slept, we ditched our screen doors. danced in rain. rinsed out our grass stains & became the night’s nickname. they called us kids
we called ourselves bigger than most things our size. sneaking girls beneath the playground slide. first kisses were a lot like gut laughter everything was funnier when you weren’t supposed to smile. they told us to mind our manners. fold our fingers. did you wash your hands before dishing them greens? did you help your mother pick them greens? we were scabbed knees & bubble gum fiends all hyped up on Mike & Ikes and Now & Laters
“eat some now, & save some for later” sounded a lot like a metaphor for childhood. for the way we grew up through adversity & anniversaries of street signs & jazz parades. i guess, before they built that freeway, there was a colony of houses. lined up like heritage on an auction block about to meet their god. the largest black community in Saint Paul was cut down. like it hadn’t deserved the land it slept on for so long. like it hadn’t raised its children under corner store stories, front porches & grandma’s front lawn
i bet if they knew we hid beneath the bridges they built they would tear those down too. they would tell us kids to grow up like high rises through minority roofs. we were minorities, proof—that if you raise your fireflies in the heart of the dark, they will earn their light in the form of a spark! in the form of a million matches attempting to set aflame the desert until
every grain is a diamond worth giving a name. so they called us kids. we called ourselves the reason this neighborhood lives we were our front door keys. our tattered shoes & collard greens. our mothers woke us at dawn. told us to walk down the block to Golden Thyme given enough money for a coffee & a Krispy Kreme. if i remember to bring four creams, four sugars a stir. she would always blow me a wink. one that meant the top of the world, or at least, the ferris wheel peak.
WHAT THE DEAD KNOW BY HEART
lately, when asked how are you, i
respond with a name no longer living
Rekia, Jamar, Sandra, Philando
i am alive by luck at this point. i wonder
often: if the gun that will unmake me
is yet made, what white birth
will bury me, how many bullets, like a
flock of blue jays, will come carry my black
to its final bed, which photo will be used
to water down my blood. today i did
not die & there is no god or law to
thank. the bullet missed my head
& landed in another. today, i passed
a mirror & did not see a body, instead
a suggestion, a debate, a blank
post-it note there looking back. i
haven’t enough room to both rage and
weep. i go to cry & each tear turns
to steam. I say
I matter & a ghost
white hand appears
over my mouth
THE ORPHAN PERFORMS AN AUTOPSY ON OLD RONDO - AGE 20
for those who continue to be removed
WHITENESS SHOPS FOR A PRAYER
how do you pray / does it involve a keyboard / is it in 140 characters / or less / does it have a barcode / does it have a Wikipedia page / is it in English / is it tax deductible / does it include all lives / is your prayer gluten free / is it safe around children / is there an abridged version / is your prayer an all purpose cleaner / natural selection / can it get out the black / can it clean up the tough stains / is your prayer running for president / can your prayer run / does it do yoga / is it active / i don’t understand can you translate / can you teach me / can your prayer teach / is it articulate / where can i get one / where is it from / is it in right now / is it spicy / will it burn my tongue / does it come with anything else / compound interest / buy one get one free / is it exclusive / can i join / do i have to close my eyes / or can i just post it / does it hang well / polyester / silk / is it safe online / does it have a Facebook option / paris filter / does it love its country / it has to love its country / was it born here / is it pre-washed / will it attack: my opinion / does it come / with a leash / how much / is it reusable / which religion / can i crop it / one size fits / all / where was it made / can you prove it / is it carbonated / is it domestic / is it domesticated / is it sharp / is it natural / where is it from / does your prayer have papers / does it come with instructions / how does it look / does it bite / how does it look / does it fit / how does it look / how does it look / how does it look / does it come / in white
THE ORPHAN PERFORMS AN AUTOPSY ON THE NATIONAL ANTHEM
you
proud. we
fight.
we
red
bursting in
the night.
our flag was
the land.
NEW COUNTRY
after Safia Elhillo
i pledge allegiance to my
mother’s garden & leftover
greens & lawry’s seasoning
salt & cast-iron skillets hung
like new rusting crucifixes
beside the stove
i pledge allegiance to Solange &
coconut oil i pledge allegiance
to grindr & my nudes sent like shiny
brown flags i pledge allegiance to
the inside joke & Black Twitter to
selby ave the side eye emoji free
open mics & to laughter breaking
like bread
yeah i’m salty af that’s what
happens when you’re dragged across
an ocean when you’re curved by a
country that soaks its feet in your blood
i pledge allegiance to no bullet or ballad
no they or bald bird or well-intentioned
white women offering hugs
i choose the cypher at dusk the
swaying circle & the music we make
with our mouths our good mouths
& the ghosts that sometimes crawl out
i choose Sunday Candy’s chorus our
humming bodies & the street lamp
flickering on
beat this impromptu preamble
warmed by our own resilience i
choose the bus stop & the soft whir
of dead leaves november’s falling sun
good soft light stretching our dancing
shadows tossing us into the night’s cool air
THE ORPHAN DINES WITH GHOSTS
there are dead boys at the dinner table
& white women running out of words to compliment the turkey
they say soft
& i imagine the salt & smack of a bullet
rattling like a pinball in a black boy’s jaw
they say more pepper
& my melanin remembers how sugar is a spice
to an open wound then begins to melt
they say too dry
& Ferguson & Minneapolis & Detroit &&&
become a death desert; a bouquet of wilting
girls left to give the ground some color
they say stuffed
& wilson’s bank account becomes flooded
with ancient blood, begins to pay bills with
a dead boy’s bones
they say so good
& all the ghosts resurrect. begin to suck their teeth
to blow on the back of pale necks
Donte, why haven’t you touched your food? Why so quiet? Donte, why so quiet?
because we’re being hunted. always. bound
like wheat left to soil under sun & you sit sighing about your privilege. full stomach
foreign to the bodies you break bread over. got crumbs nested in my brother’s
corpse & i’m pissed. have justified our murders too. dissected the lettering of my
autopsy in search of any hiding justice somewhere living is a man
paid to make our mothers mourn. somewhere living is a law that says my brothers &
i can’t walk three or more in North Minneapolis. somewhere living is white
america. laughing. licking spoons in their living room unbothered. breathing. the news
cheerleading their silence. historically violent headlines: looting after innocent verdict
& you ma’am want me to be quiet want me black enough for decoration.
want me two words or less. obituary ready & dressed. boy just dance off those bullets, just write
a poem about progression. want me articulate until the trigger. won’t understand racism
until someone calls me a n/i/g/g/e/r until then, you won’t riot. & we’ll
just sit. cutlery awkwardly cutting the silence culturally divided
you’ll say something about this meal is off
& i’ll think
white guilt must make
everything taste like
a grave
IN WHICH THE ORPHAN’S SISTER IS MURDERED SIX MONTHS AFTER HIS MOTHER’S DEATH
it wasn’t bad enough that she was shot in front of her children
her body lay six hours in the July rain
the news report said: female & not woman
the whole neighborhood watched but no one saw a thing
she wasn’t the intended target
she warmed a plate for a man who would, eventually, use her as a shield
i ran from 5th & Penn, pajamas only, wailing harder than the sky
someone stole gifts fro
m the tree-curb memorial
her daughters whispered get up, get up at the casket
she registered to return to school in the fall
she cried the first time she fired a gun
mom dreamt she would be the first of us to go
i could let the blood return to my molting brain, unpin revenge
from its crowded shrine where i’ve planned to toss his crimson
body one splashing limb at a time. i could, so easily, let my heart
back inside this burning house. return the shovels to my mother’s forgotten
shed, unlearn the recipe for hydrochloric acid. i could forfeit the
hunt, i promise. i am a kind boy. just don’t tell me that
she bought him a bullet-proof vest
she died in his arms
he dropped her spilling body & fled
FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF
denial
my mother is dead
mother is dead my
is dead my mother
dead my mother is
dead my is mother
is dead mother my
mother is my dead
my mother dead is
dead is my mother
my dead mother is
mother my is dead
is mother dead my
is mother my dead
mother my dead is
my dead is mother
dead is mother my
dead mother my is
mother dead is my
my is mother dead
is mother dead my
my is dead mother
is my dead mother
mother dead my is
is my mother dead
anger
& i wish there was a soft metaphor
to lower you into this grief. instead
i will say i didn’t kill myself because
i knew my siblings couldn’t afford
another funeral. i will say each night
i dreamt of stealing back her body
not a hooked rope naively thrown toward heaven
not a bandit thieving god’s house of what belongs
to me. i mean, i grabbed a shovel. i mean, she’s buried
on dale & larpenteur & taught all of her children how
best to tend stubborn dirt
Autopsy Page 2
