NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring 2015 - Page 104

By KAMILAH AISHA MOON Song of Solomon Remix CATARACTS If a child already burdened by his tombstone name ventured off the beaten path into backwoods to peer into the windows of my life he would see little, thus seeing way too much. My kitchen has no pulse, my pots not slick from use. I don’t shuck anything. When life scuffs and finally scars the eyes they become turtles — withdraw inside themselves, He would see one woman, face unmade and breasts exposed, dressing for the day from a heap on the floor, or dozing upright in a cracked, fifth-hand chair. Blankets twisted in sweat and fallen sunlight — scenes of quiet disaster seared into tiny retinas. No harmonies riding breezes to bring him comfort or joy. she squints at every wound. After all, why this cruel gauze now? Over 66 years of scenery, fate’s When did the need for nourishment flip into a desperate feeding of desire? This figment of boy hunched in the shadows yearns for me to break the chains of my parents’ choices chapter and verse to give him something to emulate, to strive for! Who wants to be born unable to outrun blue-lipped destiny? dive inside private marshes, dragging under the once-girl they belong to, the dewy woman who rolled them in pleasure, then cried her children here, blinking back. They retreat into hardness, scattershot survived thus far — have they seen enough, growing armor that only a highly-skilled violence can remove? She goes under, begs the rest — tissue, organs and membrane to please hold on, still eager to behold (until that final haze) some sliver of disheveled beauty. The eyes of her dreams carapace, zig-zag and buzz trapped inside latched windows. There is no surgery for this. I yearn to cut my matted hair so a woman’s hands will run through it to make me over. The last woman’s hands lost in my thick roots unraveled me, sparked a prolonged fever. 102 Less magic than mayhem beneath my navel (I’m no Pilate or angel), I’ve lived long enough to know why a man would choose a moment of soaring over a train of unsung years freighted with loss and memory. I don’t wish this knowing on anyone’s child — especially a son’s soul growing among trees that might be watching. BRN-SPRING-2015.indb 102 3/29/15 11:42 AM