Autopsy

by Donte Collins

  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