An Elegy for Lucille Clifton, and: My First Gun, and: Requiem for the Coupe de Ville Afaa M. Weaver (bio) An Elegy for Lucille Clifton … onto a heathen country … —from "slaveships" It's the old Shirley Highway, the roada woman inspired, flat in the curves,the way for farmers to go home. I turn to hear the way you reach deepin the crevice of a tale to let me knowthe secrets of how to get through. there is a fire in the hills, are we lost? It's my father's last new car, the greenChevy he bought from Charlie Irishjust as I was getting to know the price. Mill towns drop out of the lips of clouds,the way Buffalo must have puffedat night, and I know the legend you are. there is a fire in the hills, are we lost? If a radio could catch the frequencyof a magic woman with ears to heaven,it would sit still now between us. The words rise up from the waywe lose time in the fold of bye and bye,the slipped anacrusis of gospels. there is a fire in the hills, are we lost? [End Page 85] My First Gun Not even a week out of prison he stickingthe thing in my face, six-inch barrel, twenty-twoor thirty-eight, ages I just might not make. Minding my business is minding hisin our world, the top of the hill, high pointof the valley, Milton Avenue, our grave. This is a world folk will name with cameras,The Corner and later The Wire, sad storiesof children not yet born, our children, cherubs. A gun changes things, changes your mind,not even a week out of prison he stickingthe thing in my face, and I count the chambers. Six chambers, six the sum of two times sacred three,three the number of parts of God or a liquor bottle,the cap, the head, the body, a shallow torso to break. A gun changes things, changes your black mind,makes you want one to talk back to the one pointingin your face, but dumb guns don't talk. They wait. When they speak, they speak in thunder, the loudtap on the body to demand that it open itself up,edges of black skin screaming, falling away. [End Page 86] Requiem for the Coupe de Ville If I can borrow that lament for a guitar and sayyou took a fine time to leave me, B. B. Kingwon't mind that I ache that way when I seewhat time has done to the cruiser that took menaway from the tightness of life in mills, on docks,to let them roll around the block in luxuryand power, let them command the windowswith buttons and cool their own air when airin houses had no choice, what they have doneto the long way a Cadillac took a corner, the hoodemblem like the prow of a ship parting the asphaltto announce the kingly way we owned pavementsand alleys before the sheets of plywood covereddoorways where mothers sat with hair greaseand plaited their daughters' hair on Saturdays,before the blank empty nothings grew in spaceswhere our homes once stood, the absence nowthe rubble, what time has done to the rubber matswe brushed and scrubbed with Comet, detailssummed up in what car washing has come to be,detailing—an age where the engine and the wiresare an internet, and the steady hum of V8s comesunder the list of options in memories of big cars,the rolling thrones of men who announced twelvehour shifts, missing limbs, sweat and sweetpotatoes lying upside one another as if to makean act of love in the plate, food they paid forin jobs that proved the miracle of a black faithin payment for believing in what would notbelieve in them, the hard windows that plannedtheir lives the way men washed these cars, theseprizes for getting up inside a day that wantedto knock them...
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