ALWAYS, THERE IS MUSIC
i own two of my father’s
things: his favorite pink sweater & an R&B classics
cd. on its front, a black man in sweatpants hovers,
his hand touching cardboard, his body suspended.
when i am in the music, i become the empty space.
i dance with my father. i become untouchable, burn
rubber, celebration, real.
//
once, i was sitting in a car and everyone (not black)
around me heard the beat drop and howled like a
pack of infants learning their most bestial cry. i left
my skin to rot there, let them plunge a shovel in the dirt
& lift a hundred pine boxes. go ahead. you have my
permission. move with reckless abandon. call it
breakdancing. it’s lit. call it something
you don’t understand.
//
once, someone (not black) asked for my opinion
on drake.