T'ai Freedom Ford

July 13, 2013 Saturday afternoon: in the driveway between buildings they blow up balloons—yellow, red, blue—for a 3-year-old’s party. The intermittent pops startle me like random gunfire—remind me of birthdays brown boys will no longer celebrate. The DJ, having set up the speakers, begins to play—the music, a rapid fire of bass thump, commandeers the apartment. We have no choice but leave. An art show: canvases colored with boxes and lines—a grid of red on a backdrop of yellow. We speak of the abstract with wine in our mouths. Meanwhile, in an antechamber, six are sequestered. They speak of mali- cious intent, blood, evidence, testimony—murder versus manslaughter. We arrive home to a throng of brown bodies, hands clutching red cups, and music: its insistent treble stabbing the ears. Inside, we slam all windows, but the music still blares as my niece shoots people on the video game—its sounds are too realistic to bear. Instead, the news, a verdict is in: not guilty. And everything is a blur of sound, my heart beating so fast I put a hand to my chest. I watch the TV screen: a collage of abstractions—spotlights, microphones, smiles, handwritten signs. I stare, as if it were a painting— a smear of twisted faces smothered in gesso and oil, a grid of red on a backdrop of yellow—to make sense of. The party continues. The 3-year-old probably in bed dreaming of melted ice cream, and I am tired of partying. There is a police station a half block away and I want it to burn. Instead, only the smoke of weed, the meaningless music droning on, the popping of balloons. Sunday morning, the birds are angry—their chirping a noisy chant: NO NO NO NO. Outside, the rubbery flesh of balloons color the driveway like splotches of paint. In an instant, those still lives of heave and breath—gone in a pop.

when i was 7, i hoped rocks would whisper the secret to being hard. fascinated by Keisha’s skin so soft, i seduced her into humping even though she was five years my senior and my babysitter—click of the light covers snatched away like a magic trick reveal i could hear Keisha wail one floor up through the radiator pipes—i was the victim. at 7, i decided i should’ve been born a boy, a he, a him. blamed my mama for her mistake. prayed for a penis and practiced peeing standing up until it came: aim, angle of lean, and straddle were crucial. toilet seat up, knees clamping the cool rim i let go of the golden flow feeling the warm wet trickle down my legs darkening my dungarees a new shade of blue. at 7, i was never afraid of putting things in my mouth: i chewed my fingernails till they bled, chewed pencils till the yellow paint flaked me a crusty mustache, chewed pen caps into odd sculptures, chewed pens until the inky cylinders leaked a Rorschach on my face kids pointing as i ran to the bathroom oooh a butterfly! no, a thundercloud … i wore my iron-on Bruce Lee sweatshirt till his face cracked and faded invisible. still, i felt invincible when i wore it kicking lunch tables with my shins. karate-chopping pencils in two. forever trying to impress the skirts with my awkward brand of goof. punching my arm to make lumps rise out of the bony sinew. at 7, i knew how to make a girl cry.

pick the big bitch: the chick who look like she chew screwdrivers. hunched at the lunch table copying homework, shredding syllables with a mouthful of metal. shush the rebel in your throat, that ghost of punk funking dark circles in the pits of your polo. resist the impulse to shittalk your way through ranch dressing and lunchroom throng. bumrush: snatch song from her ears, tangle of headphone wires and tracks of mangled weave. nevermind uglying her face with nails or an armful of bangles. she already a jigsaw puzzle of scratch and scar, every exposed part caked in vaseline. every fold of fat fortified with that free-free — french fries, chickenshit shaped like tenders, cheese sticks. she will slip’n slide you if you don’t come correct. pick you up by your bookbag till you feel fly, camera phone red eyes winking your punkass almost famous. but that ain’t your fame to claim. pitbull her ankles till she drop, till ketchup and corn splatter, scatter abstract like technique from our 5th period art class. as she knuckles herself up from chickenfeed, ain’t no need to run. instead smile for the video, that soul-clap in your chest is your heart.

for those of us who can’t quite quit her when the poem flirts similes hugging her thighs like a tight skirt: consider the possibilities. if the poem follows you home, whiskey pickling her tongue: make her coffee, black. if the poem arrives dressed as metaphor, begging for candy: trick or retreat till the mask falls. should the poem slink outta panties, stand naked demanding touch: finger her lines till her stanzas beg for an encore: come again, explore, imagine odd positions of sweet revision. and whenever she whispers, stop: listen and leave her be.

be born: black as ants on a chicken bone black as Nina Simone and Mahalia’s moan black as rock pile smile and resilience black as resistance and rhythm and Sonny’s blues black as no shoes and dirt floors black as whore and Hottentot foxtrot Lindy Hop and Watusi pussy and pyramids black as darkness under your eyelids black between your legs black as dregs of rum sugarcane summer plums holyghost hum black as bruised throat fieldholla wading in the shallow black as ocean river stream creek running black transparent translucent transatlantic slanted shanties planted in red clay black as funky chickens and chitlins and kinfolk sold away black as auction block and slop and hip-hop and rock and roll and chop shop and cop cars and parole and overseer patrols and one drop rules and pools of blood black as beige and good hair and sounding white and light-skindeded and my grandmamma is Cherokee, Iroquois, Choctaw black as pit bulls and lockjaw and rage and hoodies black eyes and black-eyed peas peasy heads and loose tracks black as trees and noose and hounds let loose in the night black as fist and fight Sojourner and Nat Turner and righteousness black as fuck and not giving a fuck mud-stuck and quicksand quick hand hustle thigh muscle and hurdle black as cotton and tobacco and indigo black as wind and bad weather and feather and tar and snap beans in mason jars black as nigga please and hallelujah black asses and black strap molasses and turn your black back on audiences black as banjo and djembe and porch and stoop and spooks sitting by the door black as roaches in front of company and lawn jockeys and latchkey kids and high bids and spades and shittalk black as cakewalk and second line and black magic and tap dance, lapdance and alla that ass black as jazz and juke and juju and spirit disguised as harmonica spit black as cast-iron skillets and grits and watermelon seeds flitting from lips black as tambourines hitting cornbread hips black batons splitting lips and Martin Luther King, Jr. boulevards and downtown beatdowns black sit-ins and come-ups and oops upside yo’ heads and we shall overcomes and get down on it black get into it black let’s get it on and get it while the getting is good black as white hoods and backwood revivals black as survival and Trayvon and Tyrone and Josephus and amen and Moses and Jesus and getting over black—