The Tradition

I’m sure Somebody died while We made love. Some- Body killed somebody Black. I thought then Of holding you As a political act.

Nobody in this nation feels safe, and I'm still a reason why.

There is the happiness you have And the happiness you deserve.

When I kill me, I will Do it the same way most Americans do, I promise you: cigarette smoke Or a piece of meat on which I choke Or so broke I freeze In one of these winters we keep Calling worst. I promise if you hear Of me dead anywhere near A cop, then that cop killed me.

My mother grew morning glories that spilled onto the walkway toward her porch Because she was a woman with land who showed as much by giving it color. She told me I could have whatever I worked for. That means she was an American. But she’d say it was because she believed In God. I am ashamed of America And confounded by God.

The people of my country believe We can’t be hurt if we can be bought.

I begin with love, hoping to end there.

I will not shoot myself In the head, and I will not shoot myself In the back, and I will not hang myself With a trashbag, and if I do, I promise you, I will not do it In a police car while handcuffed Or in the jail cell of a town I only know the name of Because I have to drive through it To get home.

No sound beating ends where it began. None of the beaten end up how we began.

We few left who listen to the radio leave Ourselves available to surprise.

Let me be Another invisible, Used and forgotten and left To whatever narrow miseries I make for myself Without anybody asking What's wrong. Concern for my soul offends me....

All my anxiety is separation anxiety. I want to believe you are here with me, But the bed is bigger and the trash Overflows. Someone righteous should Take out my garbage. I am so many odd And enviable things. Righteous is not One of them. I’d rather a man to avoid Than a man to imagine in a realm Unseen, though even the doctor who Shut your eyes swears you’re somewhere As close as breath. Mine, not yours. You don’t have breath. You got Heaven. That’s supposed to be my Haven. I want you to tell me it sparkles There. I want you to tell me anything Again and again while I turn you over To quiet you or to wake and remind you I can’t be expected to clean up after a man.

What’s yours at home is a wolf in my city. You can’t accuse me of sleeping with a man.

So the Bible says, in the beginning, Blackness. I am alive. You? Alive. You born with the nerve To arrive yawning.

I promise if you hear Of me dead anywhere near A cop, then that cop killed me.

All my anxiety is separation anxiety. I want to believe you are here with me, But the bed is bigger and the trash Overflows. Someone righteous should Take out my garbage. I am so many odd

I want you To heed that I'm still here Just beneath your skin and in Each organ The way anger dwells in a man Who studies the history of his nation. If I can't leave you Dead, I'll have You vexed.

We do not recognize the body Of Emmett Till. We do not know The boy’s name nor the sound Of his mother wailing. We have Never heard a mother wailing. We do not know the history Of this nation in ourselves. We Do not know the history of our- Selves on this planet because We do not have to know what We believe we own.

The opposite of rape is understanding.

A bore at home, he transformed in the city. What's yours at home, is a wolf in my city.

...Stargazer./ Foxglove. Summer seemed to bloom against the will/ Of the sun, which news reports claimed flamed hotter/ On this planet than when our dead fathers / Wiped sweat from their necks.

Are already at work. Blue. I’ll never know who started the lie that we   are lazy, But I’d love to wake that bastard up At foreday in the morning, toss him in a truck, and drive him under   God Past every bus stop in America to see all those black folk Waiting to go work for whatever they want. A house? A boy To keep the lawn cut? Some color in the yard? My God, we leave   things green.

When I am touched, brushed, and measured, I think of myself As a painting. The artist works no matter the lack of sleep. I am made Beautiful. I never eat. I once bothered with a man who called me

By the time the blooms Unfurl themselves for a few hours of light, the women who tend them Are already at work. Blue. I’ll never know who started the lie that we are lazy, But I’d love to wake that bastard up At foreday in the morning, toss him in a truck, and drive him under God Past every bus stop in America to see all those black folk Waiting to go work for whatever they want.

No matter how sore the injury Has left you, you sit understading Yourself as a human being finally Free now that nobody’s got to love you.

Monotheism Some people need religion. Me? I’ve got my long black hair.