Poem 9, and: Poem 35, and: Poem 219, and: Poem 27 Dennis Williams II (bio) Poem 9 in the chest of every black manwith the audacity to loveis a black child’s heart. this heart is always torn to piecesbut will always reassemble itself. this heart has always self-repairedinto something bigger,stronger, more caring,into something of lovethat always seeks to forgive. this was always how the loving,bird-chested black boykept a heart long enoughto become a loving black man. Poem 35 as i grow older, i envision the front porch ofmy youth dancing in light filtered through thethree cedars that must now mourn. thosetrees will be there after my death, i am sure.their bark, loose fragments in my hands. Igrasp for a higher branch, look up to the sun,and am cut down i am now there on that porch. my grandmotherpins a towel around my shoulders. she turns tomy cousin to do the same. she tells us that shemore-than-loves us. she kisses our foreheads.we go play my grandfather dresses four rabbits then adeer, all hanging by their hindquarters frompin oaks. his many children play tag aroundhim. he cleans pan fish, covers them incornmeal, fries them so their tails are crisp.we all play as superheroes together. leap andtumble from porch rail and then run likespirits into the woods our grandmother smiles at this, goes inside,and comes out one hundred years later withneckbones, potato salad, green beans, andturkey wings in gravy. my aunts, my manyaunts, my few uncles, my two sisters—they [End Page 338] who helped prepare this food—are nowrolling dice with me, the skin of our handssunken deep with time. we bet with hundred-dollar bills against our odds i turn to my mother and then to my father asthey reconcile centuries of remorse, fallingback in love in two green rocking chairs / mymother looks at me and smiles. there is areflection of a youthful grin in the wine whichfills her cup. she writes something down. itfinds its way to me many years from now asthis poem my aunts teach their children(somedead/somealive/some neverconceived)how to make mud pies from clay and thenhow to ride bicycles through the brightyellow/green lawn that is high with weeds.standing on the porch as an old man looking tofamily members for memory, i feel theunevenness of each plank beneath me i look out past the oldest pine behind them,wondering if the sandstone boulder no onehas ever found has eroded much in the lastone thousand years. i see that it has not. i setmy timepiece back and am now cradled in mymother’s cupped hand as something less-than-born. i am protected here by my sisters—they wash me with ivory soap, water me, andwatch me grow in the sun. i love them.looking over my shoulder, toward thedogwood that has grown like me but will soonbe consumed by vine,i see all of my family, all of my friends, andeach lover. they are hammered bronzebright in the vibrance of theiradolescence, their smiles protected from ageby the unmoving noon sun. i walk over tothem, limb by limb,to tell them that i will always more-than-love them.we sit under striped tent near the black walnut tree withmissing limbs. we sing all the songs we have ever heard.we sing all the songs that will ever be made.we sing with a love as yellow, as green, as undying as the pollenwhich blankets us. our bare feet in the dust of the soil that keepsall time. [End Page 339] Poem 219 do not zoom in, the wind said heavy handed before it took many hats on a bridge named aftera black yet to be written as a prophet. under that bridge, there were many friends and many hats and many lives and many lovesstolen/lost/unfound...
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