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Sun slant low, chill seeps into black water. No more days of bugs and basking. Last breath, last sight of light and down I go, into the mud. Every year, here, I sink and settle, shuttered like a shed.  Inside, my eyes close, my heart slows to its winter rhythm.  Goodbye, good- bye! Remember the warmth. Remember the quickness. Remember me. Remember.

For Alma Banda Goddard my cynical feet ambled prepared for indigestion & blank faces of outrageous innocence knowing I'd have to walk over years of media declaring we're vanished or savage or pitiful or noble My toes twitched when I saw so few brown faces but really when one eats racism every time one goes out one’s door the appeal of talking about it is minuscule I sat with my back to the wall facing the door after I changed the chairs to a circle This doesn't really protect me but I con myself into believing it does One of the first speakers piped up I'm only here because my friend is Black & wanted me to do this with her I've already done 300 too many racism workshops Let it be entered into the Book of Stars that I did not kill her or shoot a scathing reply from the hip I let it pass because I could tell she was very interested in taking up all the space with herself & would do it if I said a word They all said something that I could turn into a poem but I got tired & went to sleep behind my interested eyes I've learned that the most important part of these tortures is for them to speak about racism at all Even showing up is heresy because as we all know racism is some vague thing that really doesn't exist or is only the skinheads on a bad day or isn't really a crucial problem not as important certainly as queers being able to marry or get insurance for each other When they turned to me as resident expert on the subject which quite honestly I can't for the life of me understand or make any sense out of I spoke from my feet things I didn't know I knew of our connections of the deadly poison that racism is for all of us Maybe some of them were touched but my bitch voice jumps in to say NOT MUCH! I heard back that someone thought I was brilliant Does that mean that I speak well Or that she was changed It's only her change I need

Tell us how the soul is bound and bent into these knots, and whether any ever frees itself from such imprisonment. —Canto XII, Inferno I say,Without a God there is no hell. There’s only this—. She rustles for her keys. The apple tree sheds petal after petal. She says,Let’s take you to the hospital. The petals spin like sparks. I close my eyes and say,Without a God there is no hell, and there is only this. It’s just as well. The lawn is red and white. She asks,Who says? How do you know? The wind fells every petal. She says,Let’s take you to the hospital. I cannot breathe. I cannot tell her,Yes—. Because without a God there is no hell, as she whispers,Talk to me, I know I will clamber—but not toward heaven, toward the sky, eyes winking behind petal after petal. The rope-burnt bark will flake away and fall. Knot on my neck, the rest would be so easy: I’ll pray,Without a God there is no hell, then slip through petals—through petal after petal.

It had to be from someone whose grandparents were born in Shanghai not the city’s greatest citizens, but certainly among the sober ones to make their small now eroded mark It had to be from a distant or dissolute descendant (yes,moi) who can sing praises unworthy of even a flicker of your attention Doesn’t this sound like it might turn into a love poem or a prayer Well, you are wrong, because a man of the people, which I am not nor will I ever be, doesn’t single out one above all others as this is a hierarchical construction and therefore undemocratic and antihumanist It had to be from someone whose virtues do not include stubbornness, patience, gentleness, loyalty, or truthfulness It had to be from someone who could take my place after I left the room never to return It had to be from someone who didn’t exist before this poem began writing itself down

Did I, my lines intend for public view, How many censures, would their faults pursue, Some would, because such words they do affect, Cry they’re insipid, empty, and uncorrect. And many have attained, dull and untaught, The name of wit only by finding fault. True judges might condemn their want of wit, And all might say, they’re by a woman writ. Alas! a woman that attempts the pen, Such an intruder on the rights of men, Such a presumptuous creature, is esteemed, The fault can by no virtue be redeemed. They tell us we mistake our sex and way; Good breeding, fashion, dancing, dressing, play Are the accomplishments we should desire; To write, or read, or think, or to inquire Would cloud our beauty, and exhaust our time, And interrupt the conquests of our prime; Whilst the dull manage of a servile house Is held by some our outmost art, and use. Sure ’twas not ever thus, nor are we told Fables, of women that excelled of old; To whom, by the diffusive hand of Heaven Some share of wit, and poetry was given. On that glad day, on which the Ark returned, The holy pledge, for which the land had mourned, The joyful tribes, attend it on the way, The Levites do the sacred charge convey, Whilst various instruments, before it play; Here, holy virgins in the concert join The louder notes, to soften, and refine, And with alternate verse complete the hymn divine. Lo! the young Poet, after God’s own heart, By Him inspired, and taught the Muses’ art, Returned from conquest, a bright chorus meets, That sing his slain ten thousand in the streets. In such loud numbers they his acts declare, Proclaim the wonders of his early war, That Saul upon the vast applause does frown, And feels its mighty thunder shake the crown. What, can the threatened judgment now prolong? Half of the kingdom is already gone; The fairest half, whose influence guides the rest, Have David’s empire o’er their hearts confessed. A woman here, leads fainting Israel on, She fights, she wins, she triumphs with a song, Devout, majestic, for the subject fit, And far above her arms, exalts her wit; Then, to the peaceful, shady palm withdraws, And rules the rescued nation, with her laws. How are we fall’n, fall’n by mistaken rules? And education’s, more than nature’s fools, Debarred from all improvements of the mind, And to be dull, expected and designed; And if some one would soar above the rest, With warmer fancy, and ambition pressed, So strong th’ opposing faction still appears, The hopes to thrive can ne’er outweigh the fears, Be cautioned then my Muse, and still retired; Nor be despised, aiming to be admired; Conscious of wants, still with contracted wing, To some few friends, and to thy sorrows sing; For groves of laurel thou wert never meant; Be dark enough thy shades, and be thou there content.

Such a book must contain— it always does!—a disclaimer. I make no such. For here I have collected all the best— the lily from the field among them, forget-me-nots and mint weed, a rose for whoever expected it, and a buttercup for the children to make their noses yellow. Here is clover for the lucky to roll in, and milkweed to clatter, a daisy for one judgment, and a violet for when he loves you or if he loves you not and why not. Those who sniff and say no, These are the wrong ones (and there always are such people!)— let them go elsewhere, and quickly! For you and I, who have made it this far, are made happy by occasions requiring orchids, or queenly arrangements and even a bird-of-paradise, but happier still by the flowers of circumstance, cattails of our youth, field grass and bulrush. I have included the devil’s paintbrush but only as a peacock among barn fowl.

I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.

Hear the voice of the Bard! Who Present, Past, & Future sees Whose ears have heard, The Holy Word, That walk'd among the ancient trees. Calling the lapsed Soul And weeping in the evening dew: That might controll, The starry pole; And fallen fallen light renew! O Earth O Earth return! Arise from out the dewy grass; Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass. Turn away no more: Why wilt thou turn away The starry floor The watry shore Is giv'n thee till the break of day.

Piping down the valleys wild Piping songs of pleasant glee On a cloud I saw a child. And he laughing said to me. Pipe a song about a Lamb; So I piped with merry chear, Piper pipe that song again— So I piped, he wept to hear. Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe Sing thy songs of happy chear, So I sung the same again While he wept with joy to hear Piper sit thee down and write In a book that all may read— So he vanish'd from my sight. And I pluck'd a hollow reed. And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear

My book is largely growing; Its leaves are multiplied; Its pages are much longer, And nearly twice as wide. At first I thought the reader Had not the time to spare, To hail my little volume As it floated in the air. I thought perhaps while floating Away through empty space, Perchance would there discover Some long forgotten race. I knew not it would mingle Among the great and wise, Or that it would be subject Unto the critic’s eyes. I thought it was inferior, And of the minor class, I knew not how the ladies Would read it as they pass. But now I find it’s useful, And laden every page, For truly it must mingle With those of every age. Therefore I should have measured; Should not have thought it vain To make its little mysteries Unto the reader plain. But surely there’s no secret Where thought is not sublime, That I have thus destroyed By keeping up my rhyme. But if I should in future Find this to be the case, I’d take my silver pencil And all these lines erase. I’d rather use a license, Or grammar’s laws dispense, Than for to let my metre Or rhythm govern sense. The read will remember My chances are but slim, Or else this little volume Would be in better trim. Remember, too, in Dixie That I was born a slave. And all my early genius Was locked within the grave. Remember my condition— A mark within my eyes— And all my inspirations Are showered from the skies. I cannot read of authors, Nor those of noble fame, For I’m just a learning The author, Milton’s, name. I cannot borrow subjects, Nor rob them of their style, My book amid their volumes, Like me, is but a child. Therefore, I bless this volume, And send with it my heart, That it may to the critic My better thoughts impart. Go forth, then, little volume, Much good from thee may spring, If thou continueth pleading The merits of thy King. And others yet may follow, All changed within their scale, But thou, upon thy mission, I am sure can never fail.