Poems

Meg Leduc and I exchange poems over email. Here's one I sent from the big SA. I read it at a poetry reading at the Tatham Art museum and also at the Walk and Squawk jam session at the end of their show's run.


RELATING TO OMRI
Today we walked the dusty trails of a
South African Nature Reserve.
We snapped the Khaki Bos heads
From branches and smoothed them
Between our fingertips. We raised
The tiny yellow specks beneath
Our noses and inhaled the Nsangunsan Gu
Scent of citris and pine:The smell of Africa.

Omri Nene wears a t-shirt that bears
The naked breasts of an African woman:
She arches her back and shows off
Her perfect nipples. She will sit
Like that until someone tells her
For Jesus' Sake, put on a shirt.
She will raise an eyebrow.
She may or may not obey.
It's not like the Almighty God
Doesn't know what's beneath
The fabric, anyway.

That same modesty evangelist told
My South African friend that his people were
Cursed by Noah's other sons:
Their Ancient Father, Ham,
Lost his white when he was forced to walk
Down the dark continent; His skin was burned
Brown on the way. Their pales soles
Stand as proof.

Omri Nene has a sugarcane scar
Over his right eye from when
He was beaten with the actual cane
For tresspassing and stealing
The sweet ropes from farms.
The farmer chased him and his teachers
Forced him to explain the gash,
Through ashamed tears, to the other children.

I, too, have a gash-scar by my right eye
From when I fell off a swingset
And the doctor pulled the stitch too tight.
Omri asked if we grow sugarcane in Detroit.
I can't imagine showing off my nipples while
Sucking on sugarcane. No matter how
Many whiffs of Africa I take.

In this wintery-June
I wear sunscreen and a sweater.
I dodge cars coming at me
From the wrong side of the road.
The wrong side. I am upside down.
It's not like the Almighty God doesn't know
What's beneath my sweater, or beneath
My sunscreen, or beneath
My skin, or beneath
My flesh, anyway.