NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 18 Issue 1 - Winter 2018 - Page 86

This thread that holds it all up Of all remakes From clover its buttonholes and from bread its jubilation At the time I was writing false and pompous verses and in the thick liquor darkest hours the city was another skin to wrap myself from yellow fruit its darkest rind from the others their hapless suit headed for the gullet from the bird its fit of flutter from flight its foretaste from desert strewn tablecloths from the knife the seams/gashes it causes from the book that I am not writing the story that is not theirs from hunger don’t even name it from the blind and large tree its root like a banner/flag and from the sea solemn nothing were years that lasted only few months from palate to palate and mouth to mouth whispering the mystery a cane and a hat was enough to last the day and the dust from my boots dripped the prohibited juice of some place in Africa so close to cards that my good luck charm was ever vigilant and catering to the whim of a naked heart in my notes stolen scents and dates fell a bowl of salt was my home and a pigeon my only neighbor later others came with an axe tattooed on their beak they dressed in grey were adults and soon offered me a stable job and a killer debt with an underwriter.