NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 100

By ROBERTA HILL If You Find Yourself Strangely This heart a sack you threw away days ago. I found it, yes, found it under sheets of ice cold rain, shivering in my third grade classroom. Bearing, bearing its own beating beating beating beating Would it matter if another woman came and claimed its ripe fierce energy? It won’t stop loving, this heart you pitched in the trash like potato peels, onion skins, cases enclosing the life you feed on. This heart found itself in the sea, swelling on rims of rolling breakers. Heart sings, sighs, beats when memories come from afar glistening in the crushing surge. You’ll be a lucky so-n-so if love overwhelms you until you throw your own heart in a fire and feel denial flare once before it’s done, if you find yourself strangely whole, feeling like the aurora borealis which indeed you are more than you know or would acknowledge now. This heart you threw out days ago, some sack of stuff you never thought you needed. Hey, you will feel it all the same, deny or no. Love ain’t ethereal jive, Bro. Life’s inside this bag. This heart, a sack I took back beating beating beating beating 98 My body’s my tradition, my tradition in my feet stomping on staid patterns of excuses we all use to keep our inner balanced with the outer world, to keep changes from the whole heart. My feet stirring dust offers this heart a savoring wind blowing through reeds and pursed lips. Ache. The only way out for a heart thrown out, only way’s in rhythm, so move into blues before sleep, in sleep, after sleep the only way to bear what it means, our separation, to discover how my feet raising dust stops me from defeating my own rich loving. Bring me a broom, Mama, and make me sweep until I turn to foam, until I purge this fear of losing my own hard-loving heart beating beating beating beating so praise and grace overtake dust and garbage. Count your own heart lucky if you last long enough to see your psychosis coming up through the floor. Sea foam restores us even as it overwhelms so we puke that self-righteous snide belief in Reason with its grandiose R, its air tiring me to death. You’ll be lucky if love overwhelms you once more before you die. Love’s not fated, no matching sets of tea cups and saucers designed to find each other again, no Siree. No life-long guess how today you win, tomorrow, hell, you best be gone. That’s not love, not the kind I’m speaking of. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 98 9/13/13 12:48 AM