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The sour smell, blue stain, water squirts out round the wedge, Lifting quarters of rounds covered with ants, "a living glove of ants upon my hand" the poll of the sledge a bit peened over so the wedge springs off and tumbles ringing like high-pitched bells into the complex duff of twigs poison oak, bark, sawdust, shards of logs, And the sweat drips down. Smell of crushed ants. The lean and heave on the peavey that breaks free the last of a bucked three-foot round, it lies flat on smashed oaklings— Wedge and sledge, peavey and maul, little axe, canteen, piggyback can of saw-mix gas and oil for the chain, knapsack of files and goggles and rags, All to gather the dead and the down. the young men throw splits on the piles bodies hardening, learning the pace and the smell of tools from this delve in the winter death-topple of elderly oak. Four cords.

My pa he didn’t go to town Last evening after tea, But got a book and settled down As comfy as could be. I’ll tell you I was offul glad To have my pa about To answer all the things I had Been tryin’ to find out. And so I asked him why the world Is round instead of square, And why the piggies’ tails are curled, And why don’t fish breathe air? And why the moon don’t hit a star, And why the dark is black, And just how many birds there are, And will the wind come back? And why does water stay in wells, And why do June bugs hum, And what’s the roar I hear in shells, And when will Christmas come? And why the grass is always green, Instead of sometimes blue, And why a bean will grow a bean And not an apple, too? And why a horse can’t learn to moo, And why a cow can’t neigh? And do the fairies live on dew, And what makes hair grow gray— And then my pa got up an’ gee! The offul words he said, I hadn’t done a things, but he Jest sent me off to bed.

Getting the child to bed is awful work, Committing that rage to sleep that will not sleep. The lie rots in my throat saying, “O.K. There is balm in Gilead. Go to bed. Honey of generation has betrayed us both.” And truly it is no wild surmise of darkness Nor Pisgah purview of Canaan drowned in blood But only my child saying its say in bed. If madness ever covers me, the caul contract That now but loosely insinuates a shroud I shall go howling into the conscious grave (God keep children from the power of the dog) Follow that note into the uttering horn Awake in the womb from which I was born.

Time to give up grieving my mother’s loss, faulting my father and his Neolithic moral certitude about every detail on the evening news, his general absence hanging like the gray sheets on the line. Never mind how mismatched in the heart, I should be grateful they were there at all, for that moment that childhood stretched like fog, the beach empty and unmarked. It comes to little now who I forgive, mourn, or thank. The dust shifts and we are barely suspended in the light. I know this little thing: there’s a boy somewhere in a station where the trains still run, wearing scuffed brown shoes, gray overcoat, and cap; someone has neatly parted and combed his hair. He is waiting to be taken by the hand and told where we are going, to hear we are headed home— though I can see nothing beyond the smoke and midnight haze at the far end of the platform, where I am not even sure of the stars.

She brightens at the evidence. Like a strong appliance. You can make it hot. Grown ass people having tantrums. I’m unbought, unheated. Like a perfectly square morsel of lasagna. A wrathful rubics cube. To realize, I wish to ridicule people interested in martial arts. That I’m not getting better. My uncle would prank call my father, “Immigration!” He’d crow. And my father would fall to silence. No matter the heavy accent. No matter the voice he’d known unto boredom. One wing swigging out to its brother on the other bird. I measured this silence when I was a girl. The quality of the joke and how it rested on the bad stomach of a tensile citizenry. The joke was that, in an instant, We Lost Everything. It is important to remember who would laugh first— the perpetrator/uncle/jokester or the assailed/father/feather. Or maybe, it isn’t. Maybe what you should know is that they told this joke over and over and ever. My uncle crowed. My father disbelieved. We lost everything. And then, the svelte, sweet brier laughter.

After you’ve learned to walk, Tell one thing from another, Your first care as a child Is to get used to your name. What is it? They keep asking you. You hesitate, stammer, And when you start to give a fluent answer Your name’s no longer a problem. When you start to forget your name, It’s very serious. But don’t despair, An interval will set in. And soon after your death, When the mist rises from your eyes, And you begin to find your way In the everlasting darkness, Your first care (long forgotten, Long since buried with you) Is to get used to your name. You’re called — just as arbitrarily — Dandelion, cowslip, cornel, Blackbird, chaffinch, turtle dove, Costmary, zephyr — or all these together. And when you nod, to show you’ve got it, Everything’s all right: The earth, almost round, may spin Like a top among stars.

The young man, hardly more than a boy, who fired the shot had looked at him with an air not of anger but of concentration, as if he were surveying a road, or feeding a length of wood into a saw: It had to be done just so. The bullet passed through his upper chest, below the collar bone. The pain was not what he might have feared. Strangely exhilarated he staggered out of the pasture and into a grove of trees. He pressed and pressed the wound, trying to stanch the blood, but he could only press what he could reach, and he could not reach his back, where the bullet had exited. He lay on the earth smelling the leaves and mosses, musty and damp and cool after the blaze of open afternoon. How good the earth smelled, as it had when he was a boy hiding from his father, who was intent of strapping him for doing his chores late one time too many. A cowbird razzed from a rail fence. It isn't mockery, he thought, no malice in it. . . just a noise. Stray bullets nicked the oaks overhead. Leaves and splinters fell. Someone near him groaned. But it was his own voice he heard. His fingers and feet tingled, the roof of his mouth, and the bridge of his nose. . . . He became dry, dry, and thought of Christ, who said,I thirst. His man-smell, the smell of his hair and skin, his sweat, the salt smell of his cock and the little ferny hairs that two women had known left him, and a sharp, almost sweet smell began to rise from his open mouth in the warm shade of the oaks. A streak of sun climbed the rough trunk of a tree, but he did not see it with his open eye.

Where the Bead Speaks My uncle was the prophetic one, throwing his beads this way and that, diving, foretelling, warnings galore, sweet promising. One eye on the past, four to the future, half a dozen or more for now. He was good if the news was good; for evil news we blamed the beads. Made from bones or fashioned glass, cut out from stones or beaten brass It’s the many human hours, Sister, it’s the sweat and blood, Brother, which makes the bead a thing apart from precious diamonds, opals, and gold. Turn them this way, shake them that way, see how they shine incandescent, see how they glow in a million hues. Elegant and enchanting bead, flowered flawed, folded, or fielded, you are the true frame of our feasts, your festivals, fetes, and fiestas. Give me a bead that’s wrapped in joy; find me a bead to carry my grief. We sing of beads, and sing with beads; just see how well they show on us. Beads are the zeze of our joyous trails, the ziz of life when all else fails. Beads are zany, zesty, zingy, the greatest zaiku, a grief zapper. Speak to me of beads, Grandma, speak to me. Talk to me of beads, Nana, talk to me. She brightened up immediately, she looked at me with a welcome smile. Grandma pulled up a stool and sat, she listened well to me and asked: “You want a tale on beads, do you? You want a tale or two? I’ll tell a tale or two to you. But to speak to you of every bead, in words that sing and dance like them, you and I shall surely need more than my life in hours and days, more than your life in weeks and years. A million lifetimes is not much if beads are the theme, the thought, the thing. We dive for beads, we swim, we float, we mine for beads, we comb the woods. Koli beads for the infant on his wrist and on her waist, cascades of white beads for the mother, a very fitting celebrant. There are beads that are tame like what welcomed baby here; there are beads that are wild, lion’s teeth, lightning struck. And there are beads around my waist, For only my and my dot-dot’s eyes!! Have you seen my love tonight? Asked the ardent warrior youth. Light of step, curved like a bow, her eyes were wonders to behold. She was oiled and very clean, she was powdered like a queen, she wore a sarong of the purest silk, her toes were nestled in their thongs. Have you seen my love tonight? She who wore gold beads in her hair? Then the pretty maiden asked, who has seen my love tonight? Who has seen my warrior brave? he had said no more to war, he had buried his arrowhead. His girdle was free of blood and sweat. He was adorned in his very best, he was oiled like a king, with beads of silver in his hair. Who has seen my love tonight? They welcome us here in the palest white and bid us farewell in black, sometimes blue, and brown, and red, metallic green, or indigo. There are beads, by far the most, that are polished, tarred, and feathered. There are beads, worked over and under, elegant hued, thin and narrow. Beads are the zaffered, the zingiest, the zenith of all great times. Cool, calm, and forever collected, clawed, clayed, or colored, constantly changing, bead you are the best, you are the greatest. So don’t talk to me of the chevron. Don’t ever talk of it. Don’t break my ears on the chevron. Don’t break my ears!!! As barter for my life and yours, no gem on earth could fit the bill. Not gold, and if not even gold, then what on earth is chevron? I dread the chevron. It was a weapon of oppression, and not at all . . . a bead. Seven whole humans for one bead? And what kind of trade was that? A layer each of sand and mud for the lives of our kinsmen? So what if it was one and not seven? One soul for a shiny piece of bead? This sounds like the greatest greed, this sounds like utter foolishness! Don’t talk to me of the chevron, don’t even mention it. Don’t break my ears on the chevron, don’t break my ears. They say that cheap beads prattle, rattle, and tattle, but great beads never talk. Yet if a string of beads is fine, it sings, it dances, it jumps, and sizzles. If a string of beads is truly fine, it can speak in a million tongues. It will have something for all, and say the most amazing things. And every now and every then every bead laughs out aloud. There are beads that are smaller than the hopes of a mean mind. Though called bodom, as in a dog, poochy pug, puggy pooch, bodom beads, they are so big, they are the elephants of the pack. They lead the way and announce the day. The nature of beads is a mystery, the how of it, the feel, the glow of earthly gems: the least and most, our first and true try to create, to beautify our human selves. The best of doors to human hearts, our spirit’s window to the world, beads clothe our woes in vivid color. Beads like angels plead for us. Beads can lift the heaviest heart. And like tea and precious brews, beads can warm us when we are cold, and cool us when we are hot. Blessed are the beads that bring us peace. Spare us, O Lord, in this lifetime, beads of war, chaos, and strife. No beaded strings of calamities, earthquakes, floods, and famine. No veritable tsunamis of woe. Keep us cool and keep us warm. For each color in the rainbow, there is a bead, somewhere on earth: a million years old, if a day, or shy in its newsness, and done this dawn. Blue beads, green beads, yellow beads and grey, black beads, white beads, red beads and brown. Your rise from heaps of your own ash with more of you than ever were. You, bead, are an awesome one, you are the phoenix of the years. Their making uses endless hours, the how, the when, the what of it. The wearing is by a billion souls whichever way, however much, and everywhere . . . Mined and molten man-made wonder, raw organic, or cooked, and dried, forever treasured, forever prized. Bettered and bartered, broken and beaten, burnt or badgered, bruised and bloodied you are the never-left-behind, oldest, ordered, owned invention. Pure and precious, polished pearl, still safe, sacred, scraped, or scratched; Traded, treated, tough in trouble, unique, unmatched, unbreakable. Verdant velvet, virginal as rain, beads are virile, vestal, vain. Gilded and golden, there can be no palanquin. If you are not sitting with the king, you are the queen, the soul, and spirit within. Beads are deserving, beads are worthy, wash me some beads to warm my skin, a token of love, a gift for my kin. Hollowed and hallowed, jingled, jangled, juggled, you are our life’s companion, the closest friend until the end. Don’t tell me if there were no beads something else could meet our needs. Something what? Something where? Please keep it there, even if it’s rare.

Dedicated to Kwame Nkrumah I was a little boy, at home with strangers. I liked my playmates, and knew well, Whence all their parents came; From England, Scotland, royal France From Germany and oft by chance The humble Emerald Isle. But my brown skin and close-curled hair Was alien, and how it grew, none knew; Few tried to say, some dropped a wonderful word or stray; Some laughed and stared. And then it came: I dreamed. I placed together all I knew All hints and slurs together drew. I dreamed. I made one picture of what nothing seemed I shuddered in dumb terror In silence screamed, For now it seemed this I had dreamed; How up from Hell, a land had leaped A wretched land, all scorched and seamed Covered with ashes, chained with pain Streaming with blood, in horror lain Its very air a shriek of death And agony of hurt. Anon I woke, but in one corner of my soul I stayed asleep. Forget I could not, But never would I remember That hell-hoist ghost Of slavery and woe. I lived and grew, I worked and hoped I planned and wandered, gripped and coped With every doubt but one that slept Yet clamoured to awaken. I became old; old, worn and gray; Along my hard and weary way Rolled war and pestilence, war again; I looked on Poverty and foul Disease I walked with Death and yet I knew There stirred a doubt: Were all dreams true? And what in truth was Africa? One cloud-swept day a Seer appeared, All closed and veiled as me he hailed And bid me make three journeys to the world Seeking all through their lengthened links The endless Riddle of the Sphinx. I went to Moscow; Ignorance grown wise taught me Wisdom; I went to Peking: Poverty grown rich Showed me the wealth of Work I came to Accra. Here at last, I looked back on my Dream; I heard the Voice that loosed The Long-looked dungeons of my soul I sensed that Africa had come Not up from Hell, but from the sum of Heaven’s glory. I lifted up mine eyes to Ghana And swept the hills with high Hosanna; Above the sun my sight took flight Till from that pinnacle of light I saw dropped down this earth of crimson, green and gold Roaring with color, drums and song. Happy with dreams and deeds worth more than doing Around me velvet faces loomed Burnt by the kiss of everlasting suns Under great stars of midnight glory Trees danced, and foliage sang; The lilies hallelujah rang Where robed with rule on Golden Stool The gold-crowned Priests with duty done Pour high libations to the sun And danced to gods. Red blood flowed rare ’neath close-clung hair While subtle perfume filled the air And whirls and whirls of tiny curls Crowned heads. Yet Ghana shows its might and power Not in its color nor its flower But in its wondrous breadth of soul Its Joy of Life Its selfless role Of giving. School and clinic, home and hall Road and garden bloom and call Socialism blossoms bold On Communism centuries old. I lifted my last voice and cried I cried to heaven as I died: O turn me to the Golden Horde Summon all western nations Toward the Rising Sun. From reeking West whose day is done, Who stink and stagger in their dung Toward Africa, China, India’s strand Where Kenya and Himalaya stand And Nile and Yang-tze roll: Turn every yearning face of man. Come with us, dark America: The scum of Europe battened here And drowned a dream Made fetid swamp a refuge seem: Enslaved the Black and killed the Red And armed the Rich to loot the Dead; Worshipped the whores of Hollywood Where once the Virgin Mary stood And lynched the Christ. Awake, awake, O sleeping world Honor the sun; Worship the stars, those vaster suns Who rule the night Where black is bright And all unselfish work is right And Greed is Sin. And Africa leads on: Pan Africa!

Feel the patient’s heart Pounding—oh please, this once— —JAMES MERRILL I’ll do what I must if I’m bold in real time. A refugee, I’ll be paroled in real time. Cool evidence clawed off like shirts of hell-fire? A former existence untold in real time ... The one you would choose: Were you led then by him? What longing, O Yaar, is controlled in real time? Each syllable sucked under waves of our earth— The funeral love comes to hold in real time! They left him alive so that he could be lonely— The god of small things is not consoled in real time. Please afterwards empty my pockets of keys— It’s hell in the city of gold in real time. God’s angels again are—for Satan!—forlorn. Salvation was bought but sin sold in real time. And who is the terrorist, who the victim? We’ll know if the country is polled in real time. “Behind a door marked DANGER” are being unwound the prayers my friend had enscrolled in real time. The throat of the rearview and sliding down it the Street of Farewell’s now unrolled in real time. I heard the incessant dissolving of silk— I felt my heart growing so old in real time. Her heart must be ash where her body lies burned. What hope lets your hands rake the cold in real time? Now Friend, the Belovèd has stolen your words— Read slowly: The plot will unfold in real time. (for Daniel Hall)