HOUSE CALL
for Breonna, George, and today Daquan
Behold I stand at the door and knock Revelations 3:20
Terror snatches at my neck
slams me against the peep hole
I see the uniform
the badge
Most importantly
the gun
slams me
to the courtroom floor
of my mind to indict me
for a bear trap
of transgressions
Did I pay my rent
my taxes
my child support
Did I whistle
at a white woman today
What did I do
What must I do to be saved
I open the door
Does Daquan Ramsey live here
No sir I say trembling
My god, Daquan, where are you
And who are you
They are coming for you
Thank you and have a good day
I close my door
clutch my own throat now
Yes, a good day to you
And may your bullets sleep forever
buried in their chambers
And may no blood
be on your hands today
or in your thoughts
I pray
xxx
xxx
There Will Be Beaches
FOR TOURISTS
We live on a graveyard arrowhead
where the Gullah battle haints and hags
and spirits of indigenous tribes
hover to claim what is theirs.
Yes, there will be time for beaches
and on one in Charleston, my people
were buried and buried themselves
and walked on the ocean
until it became their bodies.
Yes, those flags still droop here
and polished statues under them salute.
Bones gather ‘round their feet
for the re-enactments their sons crave.
They kick the bones on their way
to their sacrifice of burnt offerings
from praying hands rubbed
over burning churches.
Yes, come for the sunshine
peeling your flesh,
stay for the smiles and hospitality,
but don’t forget the echo and chant
of bones under your feet.
xxx
xxx
Chamberlain Taylor Gambles Away His Estate, 1853
Never met a bet he didn’t like
Drank on riverboats and slung his cash
Blew on his hands and rubbed them for luck
High stakes claimed the Taylor Family fortune
Drank on riverboats and slung his cash
Bet on everything not branded black
High stakes claimed the Taylor Family fortune
Lost a hundred acres by a twist of roulette
Bet on everything not branded black
But bet on black and lost the plantation
Lost a hundred acres by a twist of roulette
Could have saved the estate with a twist of fate
But bet on black and lost the plantation
On the roulette table lay his deed and his pride
Could have saved the estate with a twist of fate
Deed to his daddy’s life’s work spun away
On the roulette table lay his deed and his pride
Could never show his face on a riverboat again
Deed to his daddy’s life’s work spun away
Hanged himself when the money ran out
Could never show his face on a riverboat again
Became an overseer on his daddy’s gambled land
Hanged himself when all the money ran out
Used a slave whip to carry out the deed
Became an overseer on his daddy’s gambled land
Buried on daddy’s lost land as a memorial
Used a slave whip to carry out the deed
His last bet was blacks would never be free
Buried on daddy’s lost land as a memorial
State claimed the land and turned it into Calhoun
His last bet was blacks would never be free
Never met a bet he didn’t like
xxx
xxx
Bamboo Stew
We challenged each other to be chefs as kids
without white hats or white aprons
without tools or recipes
We played with nature
filled found pots and bowls from the woods
with mud, berries, leaves, bark
whatever Mother Earth allotted
With discarded and snapped tree limbs
we stirred and whipped and beat
nature’s fragments into wholeness
until one of us went into his house
and lathered his pot with shaving cream
the dreamy white of it
The holy viscous foam
stimulated froth from our mouths
It was no longer a game
now, competition
No matter what the rest of us
found in our parents’ double-wide trailers
we could never compete
with the whiteness that changed the game
xxx
xxx
