Come trouble’s birthday,
I think of every gift people get
They don’t use. Oh, and I
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind
‘Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.
We are living in an age of absurdity, but I am casting for wider seas.
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling…
And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
What I thought was love
in me, I find a thousand instances
I was the only, back then Negro, girl
in a class of four hundred waves splashing,
tossing me about in the crash
I am nobody:
A red sinking autumn sun
Took my name away.
Terrance Hayes discusses his poetry collection, American Sonnets for my Past and Future Assassin at Politics and Prose in Washington DC on 7/16/18. Written during the first two hundred days … Continue reading →
A poem by Cortney Lamar Charleston — presented as a film directed by Seyi Peter Thomas of Station Film. HOW DO YOU RAISE A BLACK CHILD? From the dead. With pallbearers … Continue reading →