How to Say Goodbye

 

When you walk away, 

when the sun sets

upon your turning back 

and your hand blocks 

the moon from shining light 

into what we were, don't say goodbye 

before you go; don't let the words spill 

like tears that land carelessly 

upon barren ground that had never 

been yours to tread upon;

don't touch my weeping face 

as it crumbles between the furtive 

fingers that had once held it together; 

don't hold me in the slippery embrace 

of your passions, an hourglass

that keeps me trapped 

in an ampoule of endless grieving; 

don't turn around while I drown

in a mound of salt that keeps my raw pain 

from rotting and only adds flavor 

to the sorrow of letting you go.

Just walk away.

 

 

“And the Ghosts”

* in the style of Graham Foust

they live in my walls

 

 

Pic by Marco Dotti 

Things That Make My Heart Beat Faster

The smell of rain at dusk, a scent so familiar

it takes me back to the countryside of another yesterday;

the taste of your lips grazing mine, still moist, 

and the butterflies linger after you’re gone;

the sound of your laughter mingling with mine,

a lava lamp bubbling, just waiting to explode;

when the irises of your eyes darken and expand,

and I can feel the passion skim over your skin;

when I hold my breath as truth slips through my fingers

and I’m unsure whether you’ll catch me as I fall;

the feel of your fingers grasping mine because you know

that I don’t speak a love language, though it flutters under my skin;

soft music on strings that loses itself in the ridges of my auricle, 

the smooth bow whispering sweet-nothings into my ear;

your voice when you say my name an octave too low,

a murmur that leaves me breathless for words;

a poem so well written it takes on a life of its own

and I let it take my breath away in its stanzas.

I Read Langston Hughes

I read Langston Hughes in an inhale

sucking in his words through my nostrils

and breathing him deep into my lungs

until they cling to each air sac like

oxygen moving across paper-thin walls

that can’t hold back his essence.

I read Langston Hughes in my skin,

absorbing images of Harlem dreams 

and Renaissance, dark beauty and

an America mumbling in the dark,

my hairs standing on end with excitement, 

electricity simmering over the expectation

of the negro artist and racial mountain.

I read Langston Hughes in my eyes,

rapidly blinking the dreams deferred

holding fast to my lashes like stars

clinging to a dark sky that holds no judgment

except the vast universe that it holds

in the black palms of its hands, carrying

the words of a generation, of an entire race.

I read Langston Hughes in my fingertips

as they press down on my chewed-up pen 

and scribble poetry written in inkblots, 

the memory of my people seeping 

into each line until, someday, I too, 

can travel through time 

in someone else’s poem.

 

 

Everett Spruill 

Let Me Try Again

 

I could tell you about the sunset, 

the way it streaked across the sinking sky 

burrowed in between mountains, 

or the way the annoying cicadas 

sang their songs at dusk and my 

American nights became too quiet, 

or the breed of horses my father kept 

in the yard for shows, their huffing 

and elegance betraying their animalistic 

indignation, where equestrian sports 

became ridiculous on TV, 

or the way the beach stretched out 

across the sand close to the tent, 

murmurs of mermaids and castles as I lay

under the stars, so bright I could reach up 

and touch them, until they’d burn 

the tips of my fingers with longing, or

the way the roads weren’t paved 

but I still felt civilized,

or the way I lived for the salt of the sea, 

the shells I collected,

the sun I coveted as it grazed my skin 

with congratulatory back-pats 

that made me laugh and dance in the rain, 

or 

I could tell you about the screaming, 

his voice a loud shriek that echoed 

in the two-story house even after he was gone,

or 

her hollowed eyes when he left her 

alone with aching homesickness, 

three kids with saucers for eyes 

and silence heavy on their tongues, 

or 

the violent nights when the smell of car grease 

under his fingernails transferred 

onto my exposed thighs, 

leaving dark streaks of pain that baking soda 

couldn’t remove even with scrubbing, 

or even 

how slippery fingers found 

their way into my childhood 

and stripped it away from innocence, 

ugly secrets no one wanted to hear 

but I needed to scream in these words.

 

But I’d rather tell you of sunsets and beaches, 

of rainstorms and horses that carefully conceal 

the rot beneath the paradise 

revealing the scarred underbelly of my youth,

leaving me exposed to the vultures.

 

How We Heard the Name

His name was an old picture 

framed in the wooden hearts 

of our family, the kind that is hung 

in every household because 

he’s the president, and it proves

our loyalty to king and country, 

but this name never clung to our lips, 

heavy on the tongue, so that 

we couldn’t even speak it

if we’d wanted to, a taboo disguised

in the cloaks of reverence, but naked

in our closet of secrets waiting

to be discovered. 

His name was hung

on the walls of our experience 

without really being seen 

because it’s been there for too long 

to remember who’d hung it,

until we were forced to move, 

box our belongings 

wrapped in newspaper and bubble wrap, 

where the name left a blank wall 

and became a trinket of value

we carried with us to our new home.

We didn’t hang it on wooden hearts 

made soft with understanding, or 

on stairwell walls waiting to carry 

the legacy of our family; instead 

we carried His name in our wallets

and shirt pockets, 

close enough to be heard,

near enough to be called upon 

when floorboards creak in the new house 

and everything expands in the heat.

 

 

Rafael Trujillo, last dictator of the Dominican Republic 

Where Twilight Shdades

I can’t chase the horizon 

with its pretty pinks

and bruising purples,

leaving fingermarks

on my soul-being

since 

darkness carries me,

keeps the moon pressed

between my breasts

and the stars burning

behind my eyes

where twilight shades

the dusky sky

in shadows of black and blue,

but daylight breaks

and rips apart

what I’ve been chasing 

all my life.

 

 

Tower of Babel

 

(in the style of Jason Reynolds)

... and I’m sitting here wondering why

meaning gets jumbled even

when the words are the same, 

and why

shadows 

are an absence of light, 

or is it an excess of darkness,

and why

I open my mouth to speak 

but I am the Tower of Babel 

built on a pyre of passion that

reaches too far, scattering 

all over the face 

without hiding 

because

my eyes are too wide

to stay closed

like my mouth 

gathering words 

that stain my lips 

and fall on deaf ears... 

 

This They Don't Tell You

 

(a Rondelet poem)

This they don’t tell you

Falling in love has its own thorns

This they don’t tell you

Smiles are stars with devilish horns

that bleed the heart but save so few

and mock a queen with a crown that scorns

This they don’t tell you

Bus 58

The bus full of

blurred faceless creatures 

zombies without aim or

destination to hell

like an image of

dying, crying

while no death occurs

no tears are shed just

blurred faceless creatures

with mouths agape

as if ready to speak

of the crimes of mankind

but words fail them like

the rest of the world has, while

eyes ablaze with no fire

glare as if the very soul

had been usurped

from behind them

and a flicker of

hope escapes

into thin air like a

tree falling without

making a sound though

the bus continues to

crowd with blurred 

faceless creatures as

two stare into the abyss of

desperation, frustration

a mind full of screams

a voice empty of response

and though one stares

at the other none utters a

word as the bus makes its

routine stops

In and out they

come and go like

waves in a vast 

ocean of crimson

death no two alike

though each foams

at the mouth, rabid dogs

that don’t bark

that don’t bite, but

blurred

faceless

creatures alike