FINAL POEM FOR THE WHITE STUDENTS NEXT DOOR WHO SAY “NIGGA” WHEN SINGING ALONG TO RAP SONGS LOUD ENOUGH FOR ME TO HEAR

I caught you stealing

glances of yourselves in the shrieking

mirrors of your smiles, and still

you have not found yourselves

in this self-made history bright

as a premonition. You’ve been

looking for your mothers

with your voices and found your names

in the pulse of Lil Wayne. I knew

already what to call you was what

you thought to call me. Please

return the e and r. You must

return to what birthed you. The nothing

rhythmlessly stomps

boot-wise over the head

of my darky sleeplessness. Last night

a young Black student screamed,

“I’m Black! I’ll fuck a mother-

fucker up,” trying to convince.

Nowadays, it’s difficult niggering

to one’s self. Just yesterday, I misplaced

my bottle of melatonin but said

to a friend on the phone, “I lost my melanin.”

Sleepless and white, I fissured

my imagination to find in it

some semblance of you concussing

a book of speeches by MLK and chanting

“peace” in no specific direction. Responding

to my loss of melanin, my friend

screamed, “My nigga!” but I swore

he’d thrown his voice. Outside,

you cuss loudly, are angry about the beer.

Everyone needs to hear this. I raise

my blinds. I stare through the window

but can see myself as palimpsest over you all

as you stare back, approximate, catching on.

Final Poem as Request for Maskot for White-Ran Journal, or “They Sure Do Love Them Some Black Pain.”