Langston* said what happens
when dreams don't come true:
they fester, stink, or explode

but hell, hear what I say
colored girls ain't got no dreams,
what we got is schemes to make it
from here 'til tomorrow

and we don't drown saggin'
sorrow in gin, or the big H--least ways
not all of us do

it's true, the man done piled
on ****, high as it can be stacked on us
but we don't all ride no pity bus

the streets don't weep for the weak
or those of us who spread our legs to get us
a baby--a toy all our own

cause when he's all grown, he ain't
goin' be there to fill our empty bellies
or make us proud

so go on say it loud:
black girls don't need nobody
show 'em the way

and one day, we goin'
take what's ours--we just don't expect
to reach for no stars

we be fine with settlin'
for someone callin' us by name
and not feelin' no **** shame

Covenant Avenue, Harlem, 1968

LEAVING

I scrape my shadow
off of the wall.
.
Fold and re-fold it.
Pack it neatly in

a tiny suitcase.
More a hold all.

All that's left is
a slight stain

on some wallpaper
roses.

Already fading.

A scrap of sunlight
chases itself

like an annoying
yappy dog.

A broken bit of glass
sticks in my toe.

I peel my reflection
from the full length mirror.

It is like trying to
grapple water.

It comes unstuck
lifts off with a slight gasp.

I funnel it into
a minature

empty shampoo bottle
250 mls.

Outside a taxi
honks its horn.

Its sound invades
the silence

of this box
like room.

Four wall that
( even now )

fail to recognise me.

"Where to mate?"
asks the driver.

I look at his photo
!.D.

"A. Death."
it reads

as if this was some kind
of surreal joke.

"Anywhere and nowhere."
I answer.

"Anywhere and nowhere."

Begin with the meat.
Venison, if you seek authenticity;
if you were raised white,
ground beef will do.
The mirapoix can be purchased
if you no longer till
the back yard.
Potatoes and peas and corn
as well.  No matter
what the commercials say,
frozen tastes nothing like
fresh from the earth.
If Grandfather did not
milk the cow and churn the butter,
saute the vegetables and meat
in half a stick.
Flour was bought and traded for
for many generations;
just open the bag and add a quarter cup.
Beef stock is such a
pain in the *** to make.
Safe, sterile boxes
with tamper-proof caps
so much more convenient.
Let the soup simmer for
what seems to be a lifetime,
then open two cans
of hominy, drain them,
and add to the ***,
letting the smell
summon the memories
of whole families.
Adjust the seasoning,
sweetening the broth
with a tear or two
before serving.

fine Furhman's Funeral Home
used the best alchemy money could
buy, to keep her flesh fresh

and a master seamstress
sewed her wicked wounds so not
a single soul could see

she was stabbed forty times
from her rubicund cheeks to her
pedicured toes

Furhman's was the best, above
the mediocre rest, in gifting mourners
with a pleasant view

when I got their bill in the mail
it had an itemized list, which included
a charge I had to contest

not because of penury or pettiness
for I am a wealthy weeping father, but
I couldn't see spending a red dime

for crimson polish they painted
on dead toes, slid in slick hose, and
hid in patent leather shoes

my wife said write a check for the
full amount, crying this was not about
what we the living could yet see

Baton Rouge, April, 1989

My younger brother still fishes
when he can, when the weather
is agreeable, when he can afford
some tackle and beer for the cooler.

He sits alone on the river bank
and smokes and drinks and waits
in the shifting shade of cottonwoods
for the unmistakable pull on the line.

He fishes whether
the fish are biting
or not. He is intimate with
psychology and the placid
deceit of undisturbed water.

My brother is an angry man.

As kids, we fished
together on the dock
and killed them
with our hands.

Careful not to kneel
on scattered hooks,
we baited the lines
on our knees a foot
above brackish water.

We dropped fish heads
off the edge of the dock
and watched them float
down, almost out of sight,
settling into final stillness
only to snap back to life
(or the false throes of death)
by the white claws of *****
picking them into oblivion—
goodbye eyes,
goodbye gills,
goodbye teeth,
goodbye scales.

Brother, I don’t remember anymore:
was it triumph or merely shame
that left us shivering in the sun?

You know you're a sailor's daughter
When you can smell if there's salt in the water

You know you're a sailor's daughter
When you swim with the ease of an otter

You know you're a sailor's child
When you love waters both tame and wild

You know you're a sailor's girl
When water surrounds your whole world

One question remains under the cover of this night
Will I bow down or will I fight?
Submission garuntees a place to stay
But rebellion lets me live my own way

I may act a bit odd every now and then
You call me a puppy, but I'm fully human
Sure, in good weather, I roll down a window
And stick my head out as far as I dare go
Yes, I also stick my nose in the air and sniff
If I smell food, perfume, or anything amiss
And I might snuggle up to you at random times
When I feel lonely or can't keep open my eyes
Though I'm an introvert, I'm good with a pack
But with those unfamiliars, my social skills lack
I'm often quiet, but I can raise my voice
I bark loudly and howl with joy if given the choice
I can be a bit akward, pushy, or clumsy
But despite stupid mistakes and curiosity, I'm no dummy
Okay, you may have been right all along
That some part of me is that of a dog