Private First Class C. Leigh McInnis
I appear to be a full-on rich guy
wheeling into Oxford
down the cedar-lined drive across from William Faulkner’s
determined to shield myself (my fancy wristwatch
my roadster
both used both fast as hell) from the shame
I once knew in this my state
beneath my bowl-cut
my underwear of the dead
my hand-me-down teeth
and at the first supper club I light upon—three gins in—I say to this woman
Khayat is of Lebanese descent
No hell! no he ain’t she says
nearly hysterical in her insistence that no prez of ole mizz
could be a sandnigger
I ask her where do you go to church
Saint Johns she says
tell Father Hadeed I said hi
tell him I said Alhamdulilla
tell him the ghost of Bill Faulkner quoth to me
quail fly south in the afternoon
better pray often
better pray soon
for those students in ’64 crossing Lynch Street
on the way to Jackson State
white drivers speeding up
dubbed it “blacktopping”
how much shit can one people take
consider the white family walking down Ellis
carrying their groceries
too poor for even the most worn out hooptie
the youngest amongst them a little boy
—Hey y’all!—
totes among other items
a sweaty gallon of milk
that has burst a jagged seam in the paper sack
so that he cradles the whole mess
with both arms as if carrying a sick baby
and that was rough but
no one swerved to hit us
Jesus of the Confounderacy
Jesus of the Union
because I love my schoolmates
that never left
black white Pakistani
Choctaw Lebanese quadroons
women with hair piled to dangerous heights
that saved me from my youth
I love kibbeh and the swamp
I love the heat
O hellish dome as soon as I could
I packed my junk and was gone
gone in my ragged out Plymouth Belvedere
with its push button transmission
and sawed-off seatbelts
my face stinging like a stuck voodoo doll
red with the turpentine curse of that place
I especially did not love
on that particular day the Sergeant Major in the meeting
of non-commissioned officers
scheduling guard drills around MLK’s birthday
says shoot six more
we’ll take the whole week off
—oooh this sure is a tell-all!—
well yes though I don’t dare tell C. Leigh
after drill when we’re heading to his place
in the old neighorhood
where we’ll eat a free bucket of chicken because Monica still works at Popeye’s
and we’re going to watch Prince videos
and not drink beers
because for whatever reason we’re both sober
and on our way
everyone stares us down
like the only time they saw a black and a white guy
in a car together was when
they were cops
and I tell C. Leigh a dream I have betimes
I’m back at our old house on Hooker Street
always a black family surprised to see whitey
and I’m so white in this dream
you can barely see me
white as a polar bear’s pillow case
white as the ear fuzz
of the great Johnny Winter
but they see me and I see them seeing me
I say back then my bed was behind the table
here’s the notch I cut with a steak knife
when I was three
and for the first time—eyes wide—they believe me
the little girl her hand on her hip
says let me guess whitebread
grew up poor
wants to do some good
