63 Home poems

Whereas the porch screen sags from the weight of flowers (impatiens) that grew against it, then piles of wet leaves, then drifted snow; and Whereas, now rolled like absence in its drooping length, a dim gold wave, sundown’s last, cast across a sea of clouds and the floating year, almost reaches the legs of the low-slung chair; and Whereas between bent trees flies and bees twirl above apples and peaches fallen on blue gravel; and Whereas yesterday’s thunder shook blossoms off laurel the day after they appeared; and Whereas in the dust, the fine and perfect dust of cat-paw prints scattered across the gleaming car hood, something softer than blossoms falls away, something your lips left on mine; and Whereas it’s anyone’s guess as to how long it’s been since a humid day sank so low, so far from the present that missing sensations or the sensation of something missing have left impressions in the air, the kind a head leaves on a pillow; and Whereas the last of ancient, unconvincing notions evaporate from the damp pages of thick, old books that describe how, for instance, Time and Love once lay together here; how in a slurred flash of light she turned and waded back into the sea, and how the slack part of any day was and is all in the way he, half asleep, felt her hand slip out of his; and Whereas, the blue heron stands on the shore; while the sleek heron turns, broad to narrow, half hidden among the reeds; turning with the stealth, the sweep of twilight’s narrowing minute, of stillness taking aim; turning until it almost disappears into the arrowhead instant the day disappears, until, staring out of the reeds, the aforementioned heron is more felt than seen; and Whereas, you, with due forethought and deliberation, bite into an apple’s heart and wish it were your own

We had two gardens. A real flower garden overhanging the road (our miniature Babylon). Paths which I helped to lay with Aunt Winifred, riprapped with pebbles; shards of painted delph; an old potato boiler; a blackened metal pot, now bright with petals. Hedges of laurel, palm. A hovering scent of boxwood. Crouched in the flowering lilac, I could oversee the main road, old Lynch march to the wellspring with his bucket, whistling, his carrotty sons herding in and out their milch cows: a growing whine of cars. Then, the vegetable garden behind, rows of broad beans plumping their cushions, the furled freshness of tight little lettuce heads, slim green pea pods above early flowering potatoes, gross clumps of carrots, parsnips, a frailty of parsley, a cool fragrance of mint. Sealed off by sweetpea clambering up its wired fence, the tarred goats' shack which stank in summer, in its fallow, stone-heaped corner. With, on the grassy margin, a well-wired chicken run, cheeping balls of fluff brought one by one into the sun from their metallic mother —the oil-fed incubator— always in danger from the marauding cat, or the stealthy, hungry vixen: I, their small guardian. Two gardens, the front for beauty, the back for use. Sleepless now, I wander through both and it is summer again, the long summers of youth as I trace small paths in a trance of growth: flowers pluck at my coat as I bend down to help, or speak to my aunt, whose calloused hands caressing the plants are tender as a girl's.

Ghost I house In this old flat— Your outpost— My aftermath

As day did darken on the dewless grass, There, still, wi’ nwone a-come by me To stay a-while at hwome by me Within the house, all dumb by me, I zot me sad as the eventide did pass. An’ there a win’blast shook the rattlèn door, An’ seemed, as win’ did mwoan without, As if my Jeäne, alwone without, A-stannèn on the stwone without, Wer there a-come wi’ happiness oonce mwore. I went to door; an’ out vrom trees above My head, upon the blast by me, Sweet blossoms wer a-cast by me, As if my Love, a-past by me, Did fling em down—a token ov her love. “Sweet blossoms o’ the tree where I do murn,” I thought, “if you did blow vor her, Vor apples that should grow vor her, A-vallèn down below vor her, O then how happy I should zee you kern!” But no. Too soon I voun my charm a-broke. Noo comely soul in white like her— Noo soul a-steppèn light like her— An’ nwone o’ comely height like her Went by; but all my grief ageän awoke.

By new names and then no names at all, their laws will reach your land, Lorine, to feed on your much loved marshy spaces whose occasional faces discern a stranger from far off but like to take a break from well or welding just to talk. We can- not extricate a place from those it’s made of, the sounds it makes. But now from Blackhawk Island to Madison to Washington, geologies thin; more things sound or work the same. Their laws will reach your land, Lorine, by new names then no names at all.

The kitchen in the house had a nook for eating, a groove for the broom behind the door and the woman moved through it like bathing, reaching ladles from drawers, turning to lift the milk from the refrigerator while still stirring the pudding, as if the room and everything in it were as intimate to her as her body, as beautiful and worthy of her attention as the elbows which each day she soothed with rose lotion or the white legs she lifted, again and again, in turn, while watching television. To be in that room must be what it was like to be the man next to her at night, or the child who, at six o’clock had stood close enough to smell the wool of her sweater through the steam, and later, at the goodnight kiss, could breathe the flavor of her hair— codfish and broccoli—and taste the coffee, which was darkness on her lips, and listen then from upstairs to the water running down, the mattress drifting down the river, a pale moonmark on the floor, and hear the clink of silverware—the stars, their distant speaking—and picture the ceiling—the back of a woman kneeling, covering the heart and holding up the bed and roof and cooling sky.

You could pick it up by the loose flap of a roof and all the houses would come up together in the same pattern attached, inseparable white cubes, olive trees, flowers dangling from your hand a few donkey hooves might stick out flailing the air for balance, but the old women would cling like sea urchins and no children would fall. Even though it is small, the people are Greek, and it sits like an oyster in the middle of the Aegean still it is tough, it reminds you of wagon trains, prairie schooners drawn up in circles by night you could swing it around your head and still nothing would happen, it would stay solid, the white walls rising up out of the sea the pillared crown of the temple... For twenty-six hundred years it has endured everything, but now we who have forgotten everything, we whose homes have all gone to super highways, belt cities, long thin lines our glittering buses snort into the main square, the spider web with sticky fingers glues itself to the town, slowly it begins to revolve, faster and faster tighter and tighter it is wound till the young men cannot stand it, they pack up and leave town the sky is full of children with wild eyes and huge faces falling to the ground.

After Krista Franklin's definition of funk House, as in abode, as in dwelling, as in crib, as in where your inhibitions go to rest. as in jack, loft, footwork. as in sweating out that press and curl. as in yo momma steppin out tonight. as in yo daddy put on his good shoes. as in this movement gradually getting Bigger Thomas. as in Pump Up the Volume. House as in bull pen. as in Detroit stay trying to claim our shit. as in we pledge allegiance to House Nation. as in The Warehouse. as in Professor Funk in full regalia. as in Chris Underwood on the 1s and 2s. as in The Chosen Few. as in Jackson Park. as in Black kids reading poems at The HotHouse. as in Hands Off Assata. as in shutdown. as in too many educated Black people downtown. as in “shiiid, we still got The Silver Room.” as in the Godfather himself teaching you how to pray with a beat. as in Rest in Rhythm Frankie Knuckles. as in a sea of Black bodies. as in Black bodies draped across poplar trees. as in Black boys crumbling beneath white hands. as in we’ll never forget you Eugene Williams. as in a city of Fire. again. as in “Can You Feel It.” as in Stockyards. as in Hog Butcher of the World. as in butchered Black boys. as in Mamie Till calling for an open casket. House as in a Harold Washington. as in finally for the people. as in “ha y’all niggas thought you had something.” as in our skin is not for mourning. as in drum beats. as in we still don’t need to know the same language to speak. House as in fusion. as in niggas spent they whole time in this country making the best outta scraps. as in Shack comma Harold’s Chicken. as in free breakfast. as in Black Panther. as in lit candles and airbrushed RIP T-shirts for that kid down the way. and that other kid. and that other kid. as in yo grandma’s cooking on a Sunday after church. as in every week you live Black you’re served a last supper. as in yo cousin doing hair in the kitchen. as in a fan in the window cause “you bet not turn that AC on.” as in Your Love. as in Chicago is my kind of town, unless I can see the niggas. as in white flight. as in redlining. as in naming the train that separates us the Red Line. as in “y’all ain’t even trying to hide that shit no mo.” as in we ain’t going no where. as in we gone dance anyway. as in home is where the House plays.

than we do when it’s all wound down. I don’t know why we settle to the sound. Somehow the regular click and chime of passing time, like water, turns a water wheel that turns a gear that turns a stone that turns upon another stone and fine and finer in between our dreams like grain are ground.

I wrap the blue towel after washing, around the damp weight of hair, bulky as a sleeping cat, and sit out on the porch. Still dripping water, it’ll be dry by supper, by the time the dust settles off your shoes, though it’s only five past noon. Think of the luxury: how to use the afternoon like the stretch of lawn spread before me. There’s the laundry, sun-warm clothes at twilight, and the mountain of beans in my lap. Each one, I’ll break and snap thoughtfully in half. But there is this slow arousal. The small buttons of my cotton blouse are pulling away from my body. I feel the strain of threads, the swollen magnolias heavy as a flock of birds in the tree. Already, the orange sponge cake is rising in the oven. I know you’ll say it makes your mouth dry and I’ll watch you drench your slice of it in canned peaches and lick the plate clean. So much hair, my mother used to say, grabbing the thick braided rope in her hands while we washed the breakfast dishes, discussing dresses and pastries. My mind often elsewhere as we did the morning chores together. Sometimes, a few strands would catch in her gold ring. I worked hard then, anticipating the hour when I would let the rope down at night, strips of sheets, knotted and tied, while she slept in tight blankets. My hair, freshly washed like a measure of wealth, like a bridal veil. Crouching in the grass, you would wait for the signal, for the movement of curtains before releasing yourself from the shadow of moths. Cloth, hair and hands, smuggling you in.