I
How Sweet this Great Land
The white girl is arrested
by joy—or is it hunger?
Whatever is there bubbling
in her perfect little body,
she has been taught
to subdue it. Crossed,
her arms make an X
like a contract’s signature; her wrists
rest against her skirt’s pleats.
Almost as if I were a lecherous savage
and not the coheir of this
moment, my nose brushes
the photograph—what must her hands
smell like? Not an odd question
when I consider the dangers
of hunger. Ah yes, there it is—the scent
too loud for even history to shush:
sweet relish, sharp chives, crush of dill—
sandwiched under her nails; a sandwich
some Black child’s mother made. How sweet
this great land of nostalgia—
when there were fewer
houses than there were trees;
safe. She looks as if she might hum;
so happy to be in the cool shade
of the man swinging from his branch.
Americana Elegy
Less boy, more band,
more twang, less bling,
less hip-hop, on brand,
more opry, less bang,
less cornrows, more corn-
field, spiritual, less house,
more plantation, a shorn
image, more downhome,
more green, more blue
sky, more bluegrass,
less rhythm, less
blues, more church pew,
more cross, less hood,
more hood, more white
washed denim, less back-
lash, more goldenrod,
less ballad, more lyric,
less gold grills, less rap
sheet, more sheet music,
less trap beat, less trap
beat, more poplar,
less popular, a more authentic timbre,
more big game, more field
dressing, more lake,
more master—control.
My God, Lick Him Clean
After “Portrait of Christopher D. Fisher, Fourth Reich Skinhead, 1995,”
Peter Williams
“Who is this,” you asked
yourself, then swiped right
across the white boy’s face.
And the rest was history.
It’s immense—larger than Williams’ canvas;
larger than the skinned head of that framed white boy
staring back. I’m talking an old big boat,
a Portuguese schooner named Arrogante.
It’s an old story: the ship trucked
its swiped cargo all the way from Sierra Leone
only to be captured in Montego Bay.
In the hull of the ship, a boy
whose skin and hair were brighter than any
the sailors had ever seen before. Out of curiosity or love
of ritual from the old country, they held him down;
pulled his head back
—the neck opened faster than his wrists or ankles.
If you were there, you would have mistaken his begging
for song, you would have heard the splash
of their laughter. You should have seen
the head, its brilliant blond halo, put out in the Atlantic.
Oh, you too would have found yourself in the hull of the ship;
hungry. Bad horse meat, you would have said.
You’d never be able to get the blond strand
out of your teeth. Refuse to eat and the men
would have made sure you never hungered
again. As a charm or votive to God, the men,
before eating it, held that boy’s heart in their hands
the way Williams’ white boy has yours now. Now, don’t go worrying
your pretty little head, all of that stuff happened a long time ago.
A long time ago, after the white boys in blue
beat Rodney King, I was there watching
when the Black boys dragged Reginald Denny
from his truck; my face was cast in the television set;
my face, an American intersection, the black sun
of my face burned into four Black sons;
An old story: once you fell for a blond boy
with black suns for eyes; fell to your knees,
put him in your mouth. It was immense,
you could not breathe. He held your head
down there for so long. Oh, he coul...