The Glory Gets. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

Beside him, his little boy,

      smiling, his teeth

      only beginning to loosen as he moves from baby to heir. He will grow,

      remember his father’s

      beauty, the godly meat in that chest. In the back of this crowd,

      a young scholar

      home from college, brought by his friends who wanted to see

      if what their science

      professor said was true, that niggers did not feel pain the same

      as better men.

      Too old for the rowdy festival, someone’s grandfather

      remains at home.

      An educated-in-the-North patrician who owns the newspaper

      that later will run

      the story. A savage raised his voice to a man. (One tenor

      singing counter

      to the other.) Or, he asked for his pay on Friday. Or, he

      did not dance

      when desired. Or, he did not step off the sidewalk for a lady.

      (Should I explain

      the Southern Anthropological Equation of lady plus race?)

      Her flowered honor

      required protecting. The imperative of her womanhood:

      ax and gasoline

      and black blood. Pig-like screams of what is not a man to the mob,

      but a side

      of meat. What never was in this place. I will admit these things

      in my contemporary

      time, but not out loud. My white friends and colleagues

      (who are not

      My People) would feel indicted by my saying, I look at you and yes,

       I’m frightened.

       I wonder if you would have sliced off my toe as I hung there, roasting over

       the slowest fire

       the mob could build. And later, killed my pregnant wife, the baby

       still inside her.

      I’m a sinner. I fear what I crave. Or love. Part of the falling,

      the romance,

      is a quandary keeping the present here. The past there.

      A liquid-filled jar

      of sex in a general store: before that day, its name was Hayes.

      He made the mistake

      of calling to her. Mary answered, her hand resting on her belly.

DRAFT OF AN EX-COLORED LETTER SENT HOME FROM THE POST-RACE WAR FRONT

      A soldier in Baldwin’s Country & I can’t even dance

      I say you can’t beat me Each day I get up to face fear

      I made money & fixed my credit I escaped you dear my shame

      Yet how to escape white space It’s impossible

      to return to your embrace to rough-trading sweet vowels

      to brothers on corners visiting my dreams I hear your whistles

      smell collard greens on suburban wind I love you with deception

      I’ll be back I’ll lift as I climb My remorse goes deep

      to the whiteness in me my bones Forgive me You don’t know

      the trouble I see I can’t tell these folks the truth

      They don’t understand me & they don’t try Or try too hard

      I want my birthright a mutual sight my own ancient rime

      In the bright trenches of the office I open my mouth but choke

      on bottled water Last week I returned for your wake

      but left before the Home-Going I miss our surviving dark ones

      The familiar is trivial & profound The strange a charge

      in my blood I clutch & shriek at these strangers I left drums for

      I sing B.B.’s mean old song

I END THE WINTER

       Now is the winter of our discontent

       Made glorious summer …

      WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

      I end the winter,

      discontented and frightened—

      an evil child

      facing the coming blues,

      the weight of glory, of expectation.

      This never-ending war.

      Every blade I sharpen

      is sure of its intentions.

      This war and that—

      every one God has commanded.

      I’m speaking a true word—

      when it’s true that any bone

      can explain why Samson carried

      it into another’s hinterland.

      Them bones, hambones,

      my-Lord-what-a-morning trombones—

      oh please, come with me

      to smite the weak.

      I know that I know what God

      knows, because He lives

      in my scripture-singing self,

      and since I command the babble

      stirring the bricks of their tower,

      I am made a godly God

      and can piss oceans to replace

      dead men’s salt—

      but if I were human, I would know this:

      the soul has a body of its own

      and will walk left or right.

      The soul’s flesh will turn,

      its sweetness no longer nectar

      but unbearable kindred.

      This war today:

      dry bones.

APOLOGIA FOR SOMETHING

      Fall in love with someone’s poetry and thus, fall in love

      with that someone. How many times can I explain this?

      I’m running out of water. I’m not a child anymore.

      I’m talking to you.

      I’m talking to myself, repeating a harpy’s creation,

      the chatter of disappointed women.