the tired comparison to Jesus on the Cross. Avoid the tropes.
The metaphors.
This stands for that, but if no one black ever says that, how would
someone white learn
this? How would any of us? I desire the surprise of intellectual,
fractured lyrics.
Yet here I am, refusing refusal. Calling the mob out by name.
Not even safely—
as with an anonymous South—but uncomfortably. As with white
man by white man.
(I’m scared just saying it.) And locating each in case
you have trouble.
(My People are exceedingly patient.) There: the expected
poor, drunk one,
neck darkened in the field. He’s a nice cliché. But not the next:
a churchgoer
and father. A man who believes in Christ and the love of a virtuous
woman who fries
chicken for picnics and stirs up lemon cakes. After the lynching
he will continue
to believe and live his life in a good fashion. Beside him, his little boy,
smiling, his teeth
only beginning to loosen as he moves from baby to heir. He will grow,
remember his father’s
beauty, the godly meat in that chest. In the back of this crowd,
a young scholar
home from college, brought by his friends who wanted to see
if what their science
professor said was true, that niggers did not feel pain the same
as better men.
Too old for the rowdy festival, someone’s grandfather
remains at home.
An educated-in-the-North patrician who owns the newspaper
that later will run
the story. A savage raised his voice to a man. (One tenor
singing counter
to the other.) Or, he asked for his pay on Friday. Or, he
did not dance
when desired. Or, he did not step off the sidewalk for a lady.
(Should I explain
the Southern Anthropological Equation of lady plus race?)
Her flowered honor
required protecting. The imperative of her womanhood:
ax and gasoline
and black blood. Pig-like screams of what is not a man to the mob,
but a side
of meat. What never was in this place. I will admit these things
in my contemporary
time, but not out loud. My white friends and colleagues
(who are not
My People) would feel indicted by my saying, I look at you and yes,
I’m frightened.
I wonder if you would have sliced off my toe as I hung there, roasting over
the slowest fire
the mob could build. And later, killed my pregnant wife, the baby
still inside her.
I’m a sinner. I fear what I crave. Or love. Part of the falling,
the romance,
is a quandary keeping the present here. The past there.
A liquid-filled jar
of sex in a general store: before that day, its name was Hayes.
He made the mistake
of calling to her. Mary answered, her hand resting on her belly.
DRAFT OF AN EX-COLORED LETTER SENT HOME FROM THE POST-RACE WAR FRONT
A soldier in Baldwin’s Country & I can’t even dance
I say you can’t beat me Each day I get up to face fear
I made money & fixed my credit I escaped you dear my shame
Yet how to escape white space It’s impossible
to return to your embrace to rough-trading sweet vowels
to brothers on corners visiting my dreams I hear your whistles
smell collard greens on suburban wind I love you with deception
I’ll be back I’ll lift as I climb My remorse goes deep
to the whiteness in me my bones Forgive me You don’t know
the trouble I see I can’t tell these folks the truth
They don’t understand me & they don’t try Or try too hard
I want my birthright a mutual sight my own ancient rime
In the bright trenches of the office I open my mouth but choke
on bottled water Last week I returned for your wake
but left before the Home-Going I miss our surviving dark ones
The familiar is trivial & profound The strange a charge
in my blood I clutch & shriek at these strangers I left drums for
I sing B.B.’s mean old song
I END THE WINTER
Now is the winter of our discontent
