A Hunting Tale
Hunched beneath the conspiring moon // the ceaseless pursue the scattered
On the run freedom is bound by kinship
shakes to howl-songs in the trees
dreams of boston—a mythic north
albeit just as white as ready to snap
across the union’s back marshal us under southern dirt
can’t you smell it? not the blood the fear
a boll of cankerous smoke billowing
above blackest flesh—garland husks for poplars
don’t ignore it not when Freddie’s bones rotting black
blue in god’s house—holyspirit be a veiled breath
the fire ain’t swallow yet be the severed spine
they fear in the backseat of this untamed wood fists
claiming the freedom forbade our weary countless
upright until dusk collected the salt of our flesh
in red and white stripes and then…
It’s fear that ghosts the man shrivels the heart
turns it to a passionate cold a haunting
no more human than he ever wanted to be
still he thinks himself an edenic gardener
praises his white lord for this wealth
praises his white hands palms sealed
like he raised all these crops hisself
as if the sweat off his brow watered the maize
and his calloused hands hoed the earth
but clutching a whip will rough up ya hands just as well as picking would
I read that: Anything dead coming back to life hurts
(a truth for all time…that is)[1]
tell me don’t it pain you
raising us folk near-as-dead
on our feet just to beat us down to the knee?
won’t even lay us down
leave us no patch of country to call our own
but we dyin’ to give it life
why don’t it twist your soul sour
when you force our smiles against shame with the horse’s bit?
how come it don’t flay the soul you claim to have?
___
The hunter calls to his best friend:
Here, boy. Who’s a good boy?
Some fine work you did yonder.
How about we catch us
another… Go on, git! Find me
‘nother nigger in this country
who thinks hisself free—
Kill ’em.
___
In Memory of All the Stolen & Unnamed People Who Lost Their Lives in Enslavement & in Resistance
The wind whistles past the hound in snarling pursuit
and a reunion of Black bones
unlynched from the branches,
unearthed from Our violent sorrows,
gathers at the forest’s bloodied edge.
The hunter cannot fathom what Black magic summoned us here
We who deny Death its pound of flesh
nor can he comprehend the imminence of freedom:
Our names immortalized in Our mouths
a continent of sorrowless songs
reaching forward
and back through history to field a home
We can return to
Encounter with Black Magic
—Brookline High School, c. March 2010
I articulate when I speak / and [unidentified whiteboy] addresses me
with a name that is not my own / but is
a round box I won’t fit into: Oreo
I speak again / [whiteboy] becomes
cream-filling spilling
onto asphalt sudden
as sun / shining Black.
I remind [once-whiteboy]: I name myself
hex context from the rawhide whip you made
your tongue and lay it in open air
I tell him: call me what you will / I will myself
to my own body / and call it home.
Grahamstown Sequence
An account of the #QueerToStay “Take Back the Night” demonstration at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, South Africa – July, 9th 2016
1. Discovery
I fall in line // behind a
dozen hands holding
cameras focused on the man
leading the procession // a
Black man / in a pensive
state / dressed in lace / a
white skirt / a rainbow
leotard bleeding through //
no torch—an umbrella of
lights in his right hand // I
can’t see his face where I’m
standing—can tell he is
looking down / eyes fixed
on the pavement / on every
step between him / his
destination // I don’t know
where we are going—or
exactly why / I walk
half a block / am told:
Rhodes Theater—march for
solidarity / against
homophobia and violence
twice-revolved in the
nightclubs this week — to
disarm the night
2. On the Corner of Prince Alfred
and Somerset / across from
New Street, the nightclubs /
the Black man wearing
white—walking rainbow //
halts // a ring of folks semi-
circled around with lantern
light // watching the silence
/ until it breaks..how? / All
that music bumpin a street
over and I hear him
crying—morning mist quiet
as his shoulders hang / a low
fog / obscuring his
expression—I imagine his
lips twisted into an ugly
frame // an older woman
steps in / hugs him close /
then a camera flashes: now
the movement is / a news
story / the moment:
immortal
3. Arrival
four lanterns
in a row before us;
on the theatre step,
humanity’s sharpness
in singular form: black
robe, black hood
dressed steel
ominous
the shade-being
with blades
then the Black man in lace—
the Rainbow
ascends
the stairs
places lantern light
between them;
edges ring
a binary bleeds
the Rainbow, utters nothing
lets the night scream
across two swords
circling sundial
and the crowd,
shuffling, is silent
then,
still
Sithembile’s got
all the light…
4. Revolution
…Sithembile becomes // Sun // escaping into first orbit //
nothing collapses // the Shade is space
waning // and He is rainbow, still // always //
His light // refracts again at the source of Himself //
waxing rebellious // He revolves apart a prismatic light // it dances //
the vorpal space between them closed // look, all the shadows
are shrinking // His hands reach for Their hands // nothingness
recedes to the Big Bang // two pairs of hands hold
revolution // what’s left? // joining is the end //
is the part when Sun lets gravity go // rises and
walks away // uncasts the biggest shadow // and disarmed, humanity follows
