I
How Sweet this Great Land
The white girl is arrested
by joyâor 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 contractâs signature; her wrists
rest against her skirtâs pleats.
Almost as if I were a lecherous savage
and not the coheir of this
moment, my nose brushes
the photographâwhat must her hands
smell like? Not an odd question
when I consider the dangers
of hunger. Ah yes, there it isâthe scent
too loud for even history to shush:
sweet relish, sharp chives, crush of dillâ
sandwiched under her nails; a sandwich
some Black childâs mother made. How sweet
this great land of nostalgiaâ
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 masterâcontrol.
My God, Lick Him Clean
After âPortrait of Christopher D. Fisher, Fourth Reich Skinhead, 1995,â
Peter Williams
âWho is this,â you asked
yourself, then swiped right
across the white boyâs face.
And the rest was history.
Itâs immenseâlarger than Williamsâ canvas;
larger than the skinned head of that framed white boy
staring back. Iâm talking an old big boat,
a Portuguese schooner named Arrogante.
Itâs 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
âthe 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.
Youâd 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 boyâs heart in their hands
the way Williamsâ white boy has yours now. Now, donât 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...