....From The Tree Of..................Pain Around Us
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_______________________________________________________ Freedom Good woman, my mama was, died tryin fo freedom fo hesself an dat baby on de way but borned me into slavery, so I'se in a homespun apron mos my life; it like a shift, but I'se neked un'erneath, an I goes barefoot till I'se three fetchin water to de fields. Dat's sumpin a chile can do, learn de back should bend an knowin what a blister feel like- feel like fire in de palm, it do. Don' get blood on de bolls we hear. We ain't dyin dat cotton yet- an den dey's laugh. Has five other brother'n sister worked de dirt: Lucius, Labor, Loyal an de girls by de names Suzanne an Lida, but nebber seen dem oncst de war come, nebber got no acres nor a mule an dat's fo sho. Dat were a lie dem fellers tole an spread it on like jam, though dere was many a nigger sorely hit by dat. Lawd, my mama'd tear her hair she see de way we's treated afta. We li'l uns din trust Yankees cause de white folk say dey's meaner'n snakes an iffen dey ketch you, hook you to a plow an drive it straight clean through de shoulders- lawd, we b'leeved it too but mama, she lit out one night, dat belly big as blazes makin fo de north. She wanted her baby borned outside de lash, so she get down: look us in de eye an promise she gwine come back as soon she could, so pray to Jesus she make it, but de oversee, he caught wind an chased her purt near all dat night an into mornin. Dogs be bayin, torches juss like li'l bits o' hell went flyin through dem branches. All us chillen fearin fo our mama out dere- fox in front de hounds- but dey caught up wid her, an dug a pit juss big 'nuff fo her preg'nan belly, an she lay down. Firse, dey beat her widda switch. She moan, an den dey bring de big whip, Cat a-Nine Tail, laid her open neck to knees. We be cryin, hidin faces 'fraid to do a thing an dats when de baby come befo its time. Blue cord wrap aroun her neck, an nobody did nuthin but watch, cause she done move but oncst, an din cry- po li'l hepless thing. Our mama she be gone hesself 'bout halfway through de stripes, an dats why sister borned in de hole, we name her Freedom: she slip by dem, juss like mama say. What Shakes Out The ants were flying like monkeys of Oz, winged and weird. Had to roll the car window up to keep them out and I wondered where they came from as I drove the middle of the road down Fifth. Presbyterian Hospital's eating another block. Perhaps a tenement's come down and now these termite bits of what is gone fly homeless, angry, looking for their nesting place- unable to pack their bags and head out for a rundown neighborhood as the tenants doubtless had to do, stacked five to a bedroom with a father's cousin's daughter twice removed. Another Story Of Ruth Click makes her jump. Watches number seven hit the eight ball not go in the pocket. Greasy light plays blue black off his head that crow wing color as she drips her red betrayal onto the pad they gave her stuffed in jeans. Not another one like him she thinks; be hell to pay, if he finds out she'll say it's her time of the month. Might work, might not. If not, she already felt her jaw snap back- the crash to the floor with broken teeth like wires of fire stuck straight up through the middle and the cat piss smell of floor against her cheek. It would be dark outside, and through the grimy window a sign that's half burnt out, blinks pink then purple on Freedom New Baptist Mission across the street- 'liver Us Fro Evil'- some he do, some, he don't- her body feels too lead to fly up out of her chair. Stares through smoke and rolls a quarter back and forth across formica badly scarred. No where to go at seventeen and homeless, "whither thou goest, I shall"- surely ....follow. Just Like The Jews Wore Badges In she comes wearing shit like a mud cape caked, funnel with a hole for her face. Says nothing. Does not name who fashioned it, why she wears the thing; it seems deliberate, her due somehow. No one says a word. Her silence is a cloak that covers even that dung dress, hairshirt, everything. Too Much Something happens like Pearl, the young reporter butchered- there's a ragged line of shrieking murder. The world goes end over end, then feel the dirt, loamy, rich and dark between the toes, warm from sun. Now and then a sharper piece shocks the heel or arch by way of saying real I'm real, this ground this day, this breath and sweat, these cornucopial feelings all be borne into another day where miracles and God somewhere is heaving his great shoulders crying too. The More Things Change The More They Stay The Same Had a best friend in fifth grade who became that, smack in the middle of the year, and gees o man I was so happy cause up to then, there was only me. Once there'd been Christine with her music lessons, and Clare, who was all decked out with playing girl scouts made the holes in afternoons for me to slip inside, but that didn't last till summer. Summer found me bouncing a rubber ball against the backyard wall of the house, alone. Some things never lose their scratchy feeling wrapped around the middle of the night when we are eleven again and mostly one man, Seven Up lonely. Heart Banked Contingency I'll laugh with one eye open keep one chamber closed. The other three are yours, of course you know the way this goes: they're by the hour. Distance She tried to say, heart is word as word is heart--just as trust is truth. It's simpler to walk a line than straddle it, but sounded faint from fifty thousand stars away: a dot, and easily dismissed. Postcards From The Suicide Fear stabs its icepick in the occiput as brain is fed the pictures. A chair in slightest shadow slant angled, sitting empty in a room; curtains blown inside the window. One shoe laying in the road and nothing else for miles of flattened light. Yellow cast of sky. Child's swing with the right chain broken, creaking in a dusty wind. An ashtray filled with evidence of burnt out opportunities. A blood spot in the egg. A cracked mirror. An abandoned boat, bobbing in a far marina. These the things that will spill out when something's spoken deep inside, but in a voice you've never heard- then comes the bird with one wing missing. Defects The structure looks the same: smooth face, solid seeming. It's only in a wind you'll see the sway. There is the webbing of a thousand threadlike cracks, the crook of a bone hook finger beckoning that gives you to know a ghost has already come for the tumbledown house. On To Page 20 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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