"self-evident"
"self-evident" by Matthew E. Henry, or MEH, caught my attention with its multiple and powerful layers. Told as an adult memory, it enters the moment when a child is asked to believe their own history isn't real but to focus instead on a cleaner, more inspiring narrative. For me, Henry's poem tackles rock-hard truths with personal experience and simple questions, and in so doing reexamines what we teach our children.
~ Mare Heron Hake, Poetry Editor TLR
See the rest here.
“Condolences On The Passing Of Your confederate Monument”
The Writing Process
Step 1. - Be pissed off
Step 2. Write
Step 3. Submit at 12:30 am
Step 4. Have an acceptance letter by 1 am
And such is the tale of the publication of my (brand) new poem “Condolences On The Passing Of Your confederate Monument,” currently up at The New Verse News.
Finding a little bit of dark humor in the midst of utter business as usual bullshit in this country.
“…and who is my neighbor?”
Jesus replied,
“a man was going down from [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] to [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] unarmed,
and fell into the hands of officers, who stopped him for
[insert _____-ing while Black reason]. they shot him,
stood above his leaking body, and left him for dead.
now, by chance, a white man [Evangelical]
was going down his Twitter feed.
and when he saw him, he scrolled quickly past
saying, #BlueLivesMatter.
likewise, a white woman [Presbyterian]
came to the place on her Facebook feed.
she saw him and scrolled quickly past
saying, #AllLivesMatter.
but when [insert the least expected] saw him,
they came near. moved with pity and outrage,
they went to the dead man’s family
to bandage their wounds, pouring action
and appropriate silence as compassion.
they put the burdens on their backs,
addressed them as they were able.
the next day they had not forgotten,
but took two friends and encouraged them
to more than march or hashtag the moment,
saying, ‘we will continue the Work together.
be not afraid: the Lord will repay
whatever social capital we spend.’”
then Jesus asked,
“which of these three was a neighbor
to the man who fell into unholy hands?”
the [insert an asshole “playing devil’s advocate”] said,
“the one who acknowledged his dignity.”
and Jesus replied,
“now go, and do likewise.”
First published in Poemeleon A Journal of Poetry’s The Truth/y Issue: Volume XI Spring 2020
“The Third Renunciation”
“The Third Renunciation”—one of my theological sonnets—was published in the latest issue of Spiritus (20.1).
It takes its title from Mary Margaret Funk's discussion of the 4th century monk John Cassian's three-fold denials in order to follow a path of spirituality:
First, we must renounce our former way of life and move closer to our heart’s desire, toward the interior life. Second, we must do the inner work (of asceticism) by renouncing our mindless thoughts.…Third, and finally, we must renounce our own images of God so that we can enter into contemplation of God as God" (Thoughts Matter, 9).
It is also the ‘title track’ of a book of poems I am shopping for publication (so if you like this one, and know anyone who wants to publish a bunch more like it, hit me up).
"Rosaline Speaks"
I hardly think of him these days, except
when asked, or blamed he fell. the looks that say
“if only you had not rejected him.”
should I have shed my maidenhead for naught—
ope my lap, my heart, to golden showers
for fourteen measures of his ill-phrased lines?
and now I’m clept as chaste, as frigid? bound
for a nunnery? I play hard to get,
expect his chase— with love as strong as death—
to last beyond one song, and he exchanged
my cousin’s rose for mine? fuck that whiny,
inconsistent little bitch, and his three-
day bride! I was too fair, too wise by far,
and ‘scaped the passing fancy I thought love.
A sonnet first published in Teach. Write (Spring, 2019). And seriously, Romeo was a punk.
“Kenosis”
kenosis
. . . Because God
is not a flash of diamond light. God is
the kicked child, the child
who rocks alone in the basement
~ Ellen Bass “Bearing Witness”
after reading Roethke’s Waltz
the tension in my class was tangible
: to cast papa as a drunk (dealing abuse
with timed fists), or just a regular joe
dancing his darling to bed,
lightened by an after work beer
but as these immortals debated design
and argued image to metaphor
Katrine’s stillness split my heart;
later she explained her stepfather’s demand
of a demon’s dowry: how she nightly endured
his endless gropes and gasps, in a silence
which left her sister untouched, and a knife
untucked from his thrusting back.
A Pushcart prize nominated poem first published in Relief (2007); republished in Relief: A Quarterly Christian Expression - The Best Of Volume 1.
“comfort”
comfort
a bed knows it is beloved by the impression felt,
indents left by sound sleep. faithful feathers and coils
hugged by unconscious curves night after night—
trust embodied in the repose of one lain down,
pillowed-sighs contented in peace. there are no flowers
or candy. no quotes or cute comments. no song or speech
save the Sandman’s lullaby, or the last to say “good night.”
after hours of waiting, a bed knows it is beloved
when it feels gravity within its silent, regal arms—
the moment to love and just be loved in return.
First published in Routine, a Crack the Spine Press Anthology (2018)
)(
"Amir and Sybil"
Amir and Sybil
a found poem for Dorothy
sit down. I’ve been sifting through your past lives.
date nights, karaoke competitions, Seinfeld marathons.
the mahogany rows turned to watch your white dress meet
your tan suit. then the smell of dirt and Play-Doh. sand between
our small toes. three collections of first steps, school days,
and sex talks for fifteen naive years. I now see the signs,
the sigils. the eyes, which once whispered pretty secrets,
gone blank before the list of things you both dare not mention,
until every room reeks with the tension of a house whose bones
shake with your silence. the angst that kept me in bed
for three days straight. I bare the weight of seeing things
exactly as they are, like an awful haircut, a racist joke,
or the lady who spit on us in the Ross parking lot
when I was eleven— our contrasting colors not matching
her vision of family. I hear the disguised insults shattering glass
at our dinner table. the sobbing at 12 AM. the footsteps returning
to your bedroom at sunrise when you think I’m asleep. I know
how dark hands once gripped the steering wheel white.
the red wine. the empty pill bottle. the piece of paper binding you
to a house whose dumbwaiter never made it past the first floor.
a house that forgot how much she loves you, the way he still looks at you.
maybe you’re both caught in the monotonous cycle of mid-life,
one sock stuck sipping expensive bourbon with pretentious friends—
without the woman you fought to swoon with two-buck chuck—,
the other lost in the arms of a trainer who stretches your insecurity,
making disgust a reflex for the man you promised the world.
you never hold the door. you never share the umbrella.
you never take her out, or ask how he is. you never touch anymore.
you never notice. part of me still believes that sometimes people grow
in opposite directions. sometimes the people who locked eyes
across a snowy shoreline can occupy the empty house on the hill
20 years later. sometimes stolen glances become bloodshot.
perhaps mahogany isn’t meant for everyone.
A version is published in 3Elements Review Issue 23 (2019)
"Sarah Rose (“Rosie”) Williams remembers her Mama"
Sarah Rose (“Rosie”) Williams remembers her Mama
well there was this one time I ain’t never spoke of
before. when Paulie and me was headin’ up to the store
them three Parson boys was comin’ down the path
lookin’ mean as Uncle Earl’s bitch hound Sophia
when Oscar the cat done scratched her pups
two summers gone. them white boys was raised
mean by the switch and leather strap their daddy
wore ‘round his neck. “fo’ easy correctin’” he would say.
their mama done ran oft on their daddy ‘cause she said
she had took all the correctin’ she was ever needin’.
I was holdin’ Paulie’s hand tight as my fist could manage
while he squirmed and hollered a bit but I told him hush
‘cause I had forgot Daddy’s pocket knife in my apron
atop the coal stove like he had told me never to do
a hundred times plus more. then Paulie fell silent
as if noticin’ them for the first time. he stopped squirmin’
but I could feel him squeeze his eyes closed
through the skin. I prayed the Lord Jesus would come
and take us off that path and hold us in His almighty arms
tight as I held Paulie. I prayed my Granddaddy’s angel
would put up his harp and fly down with a fiery sword
or head home and grab the rifle he used to kill white boys
like these durin’ the war that done won him his freedom
but too soon them white boys was right on top of us
and I heard no rushing of angel wings. we had nowhere to go
to the left or right ‘cause the path was curved like their hate
and narrow as their blue ice eyes. I was scared
as they stood above us. too scared to move a hair.
they had somethin’ in their hands but I couldn’t see what.
and Paulie was about to wet his pants from the way
he was shakin’ and I guess them three white boys
could tell too ‘cause they started to laugh. I closed
my eyes and waited for the Devil to come and
I kept them closed for forty days and nights
surrounded by wild animals in a wilderness
waitin’. I felt a hand on my shoulder but I was too afraid
to lash out or struggle or nothin’. I just stood there
waitin’ until I heard my Mama’s voice comin’ through that hand
and turned ‘round to see her standin’ there with an expression
that I have no words to tell ‘bout but she wasn’t lookin’ at me
or Paulie but down the road at them three Parson boys runnin’ away
from my daddy’s shotgun like stone in her right hand.
she kissed us both on the forehead and pried our hands apart.
she put Paulie on her back and took my sweaty palm in hers.
the whole time her round eyes never left the far end of that path.
and then we walked home. she muttered somethin’
under her breath I couldn’t quite make out but I’m pretty sure
that was the only time I ever heard Mama cuss.
First published in The Raven Chronicles. (2009)
[Say prayer is sex with God]
Say prayer is sex with God, biblically
knowing the divine in bedrooms, mid-sized
cars, with backs arched over kitchen tables— …
First published in Amethyst Review .
“lady Macbeth”
“lady Macbeth”
auditory and visual hallucinations, she explains
casually, as if describing the weather
of California in July. four months into the semester
and i’ve just learned these familiar fiends
have always been present. …
First published in Longleaf Review (Issue 4, 2018)
“Incarnation”
Jesus sits in the smokiest section of every bar,
elbowing up to beer nuts with a proprietary nod
to both sides: an acknowledgement among men.
between sips He smiles quarters, turning their silence
into singing: jukeboxes skipping between the forces
of family and failure, fortune and fidelity. together
they raise a memorial over the dead soldiers,
whose empty lips loosed theirs, as new wine
in ancient skins. another round finds only His drink
at arm’s length: the other scarred wrist rests
on a shoulder, knowing love, like a scalpel,
like a whisper, can never cut from a distance.
First published in The Anglican Theological Review. (Winter, 2010)
“maybe Jesus was having an off day”
maybe Jesus was having an off day
after His first attempt, the blind man saw
men like trees walking. “what the fuck is this
bullshit?” Morgan slams her bible against
six months of sterile friends, cards and flowers.
she follows the poison from pouch to vein,
and knows she’ll find no comfort in this book
of magical half healings, where ancient
prophets cure disease with muddy water
and bronze snakes raised like the caduceus
above the cancer ward. she can’t accept
men like trees walking. a third string angel
could do better than a patch of soft clay
and warm spit applied with two calloused hands.
First published in Rhino (2010)
“3 Conversations with white girls”
I.
“so, you’re Colored right?”
this after asking me to
her prom. the year
’97; there are no words
to describe why: i said “yes”
II.
“historically, Blacks
had it better than women”
true as 2nd class
citizens. she forgets: once
i was legally livestock
III.
“I’m fine officer”
he left disappointed:
sorry, no rape rescue
but she remained incensed at
this insight into real life
Originally published in Word is Bond: A Journal of Urban Poetry. (2004). These poems are a play on the Japanese tanka.
“station of the cross”
it is finished. but the smell of cordite
and fear linger long after their anger
rent the night’s sky. 3 of 42: birds
roosting deep within his warmth, resting
his head. he was sitting at the bus stop,
finishing a simple meal, while fitting
the ubiquitous description. betrayed
by his Blackness, like so many
pieces of silver. see this holy tableaux:
arms outstretched, head bent at awkward
angles. empty eyes track his spirit
through the plastic dome—its sides
punctured by the other 39
and ricochets from chipped concrete.
a canopy of stars cloistered in stained glass,
back-splashed by blood.
“station of the cross” was first published by 3Elements Review (Issue 20) and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
“sindication”
sindication
Say Hell’s a rerun of Miami Vice
where a D-list celebrity supplies
a lackluster voiceover…
This poem was selected from entries submitted to Typishly’s Creative Challenge Series #53.
Two Poems in The Radical Teacher
when asked what i learned in elementary school being bussed from Mattapan to Wellesley
what they think is appropriate: to treat Black hair
like a pregnant woman’s belly, question if
larger nostrils enhance breathing, probe my legs
for extra calf muscles under skin our teacher said
doesn’t bruise because she can’t see
the bloodscreams beneath. …
the surprising thing
i’ve only been called “nigger” once by a student— at least
in my presence— and that under his breath. i wonder
if i’m doing something wrong, if it’s my fault it happened
only that one time. …
First published in The Radical Teacher Vol 112 (2018)
“aphagia”
Women in Black, by Marianne von Werefkin (Russia) 1910.
the sin eaters have turned their backs on us,
departed for their flaming mountain home
to purge. they’ve retrieved their wooden bowls
and plates. in white sacks gathered the salt and crumbs
of corpse-bread— loaves that sopped our lusts and lies,
the myriad murders our hearts desired— then
retreated from our boarders, forsaking us.
no longer can they stomach what they’ve witnessed
across the great river, beyond the walls we’ve built.
the weakest pitied the glut of guilt denied
when we pass. a shame, she says. a waste.
Originally published as a part of The Ekphrastic Review’s Ekphrastic Writing Challenge.
“stop talking”
stop talking
sitting in a colleague’s class, i listened
to high school students compare a Christian baker
denying wedding cakes to same sex couples,
to Black men asked to perform a song and dance
for the KKK….
First published in Rise Up Review (Summer 2019)