for February & every single month
Let me attempt what seems impossible.
To carve, like Strazza did a veil, a song of praise
from stone. To the charred teeth of History—black
as the hide of our fathers’ belts. To what we can’t rinse
out its bloody mouth. To Jimi Hendrix & his Black
Beauty. To Esperanza & her bass. To the gravel
and coffee & cream of Nina’s voice. To mine,
singing along with her. To Be Young, Gifted and Black.
To my sister’s & mother’s & daughter’s hair. To
the coils of smoke snaking through the air above
us. To the roads we have traversed—forked
as the tail of the Saw-wing. To what swallows
and is swallowed. To what we cannot save
from rot. To my body, that it is, today, not a burden.
To the palms pricked by the thorn of living.
To the side-eye; to what does not need to be said
with the mouth. To what the horn attempts to say,
because the mouth cannot. To Satchmo’s lips. To
the Black Lip Bastard & his Hippy crew. To Everyone
I’m Rooting For. To you—named Nameless,
or left unnamed. To the anaphora of breath—
each, like God’s little toe, a comma in the sentence
of our lives. To the long winter & how it makes us forget
how Summer thirsts for blood. To Time
and the passing of it. To what is poured out
in memory of those no longer with us. To us; to us.
