in the building (myself included) knew
the whole song, but instead of playing it off,
he moaned Baaaybay, Baaabay and began to grind

toward the first row and though everyone laughed
(our performance becoming a burlesque comedy
routine) I knew we’d lose, cursed by the ghosts

of Black History Month Decency for going bare backed,
and I was cursed twice, really, (the whole no shirt thing
was my idea in the first place) since X, the jilted lover

of my valentine, was waiting for me in the parking lot
and had in fact been in the audience watching me
defile what probably for him was a very important day

(It was February 14th), and I’m sure he was seeing red
when I too gave up on the Black National Anthem,
and began to gyrate for the audience like my roommate.

ROOT

ROOT

My parents would have had me believe
there was no such thing as race
there in the wild backyard, our knees black
with store-bought grass and dirt,
black as the soil of pastures or of orchards
grown above graves. We clawed free
the stones and filled their beds with soil
and covered the soil with sod
as if we owned the earth.
We worked into the edge of darkness
and rose in the edge of darkness
until everything came from the dirt.
We clawed free the moss and brambles,
the colonies of crab-weed, the thorns
patrolling stems and I liked it then:
the mute duty that tightened my parents’
backs as if they meant to work
the devil from his den. Rock and spore
and scraps of leaf; wild bouquets withered
in bags by the road, cast from the ground
we broke. We scrubbed the patio,
we raked the cross hatch of pine needles,
we soaked the ant-cathedrals in gas.
I found an axe blade beneath an untamed hedge,
its edge too dull to sever vine and half expected
to find a jawbone scabbed with mud,
because no one told me what happened
to the whites who’d owned the house.
No one spoke of the color that curled
around our tools or of the neighbors
who knew our name before we knew theirs.
Sometimes they were almost visible,
clean as fence posts in porch light;
their houses burning with wonder,
their hammocks drunk with wind.
When I dreamed, I dreamed of them
and believed they dreamed of us
and believed we were made of dirt or shadows:
something not held or given, irredeemable, inexact,
all of us asking what it means to be black . . .
I have never wanted another life, but I know the story
of pursuit: the dream of a gate standing open,
a grill and folding chairs, a new yard boxed in light.

I. MJ FAN LETTER

I. MJ FAN LETTER