Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. Rita Dove
We Will Not Save You
—On the dismantling of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture
We will not save you this time.
We are tired, we magical negroes.
We raised you generations ago
gave our children the tired crumbs.
Now we raise our own children.
Look at what they can do!
We ran from your men while you locked ours away.
We carried your bags and your sins,
We see them in every mirror.
We have rushed to love you, forgive you
Even when you have obliterated every good thing
Tulsa, Rosewood, Mother Bethel, Museum. Goodbye.
You brought this on, necromancers.
When we tried to weed the garden, you denied us.
You fed the weeds with piles of compost.
You brought them back from the almost-dead.
If only you had listened, willful necromancers.
You refused. This is on you.
Some drink poisoned cool-aid,
deny themselves and
pretend they are not Pecola Breedlove.
Cover every looking glass,
Perform on cue, spout the party line.
“They don’t mean me.”
Respectable negroes
Kiss those pale flat butts.
Rim jobs are not limited to sex.
But you cannot see the brown stains on their faces
Even if you look.
You don’t.
Forests must burn to the ground
Before new growths can start
their slow creep toward the sun.
Tiny green shoots of hope
Peek from the ashes.
Life finds its way back, slowly.
We will not, cannot, save you this time.
We are tired, we magical negroes.
We have stopped being Sisyphus.
Let the brown-nosers burn with you
while we rock in our chairs looking at blue ceilings
knowing this, too, shall pass.
When I Was 70
When I was 70, I planted 4 trees.
Fig trees – infants, babies,
Tiny little things
In hopes that I would live to see
them become adults:
Verdant, tall, itchy white sap, sweet fruit
Filled with crunchy, honeyed seeds
Calling to birds, bees – and me.
So far they are showing promise.
I feed them and give them water
Like a social worker feeding the homeless.
Carefully doled out, then on my way.
They are survivors, living unprotected.
No tents, newspapers,
Tattered blankets, layers of scavenged clothes,
Comforted them through icy rain.
We are not Baghdad or Beirut
Tropical climes with desperate lives
Looking for protection from guns or government.
Well, at least only some of us are; the rest, not yet.
Latitude alike but very different.
We are a tropical place where tourists roam free
New graffiti blooms – a little – and
Gunshots are heard.
They grow.
When I have passed from memory
Not even a wisp of me remaining
Ashes returned to earth,
If I have done my work well
They will stand tall, leafy and fruitful,
And shelter and feed those remaining.
No one will remember that when I was 70
I planted 4 trees.
Waiting for SpaceX
I love the night, the dark, dark night.
Luna blessing with blue-white light.
Shining over azure sea.
Aqua-tipped foam runs to me.
Still shapes with wings tucked ‘til morn.
Metallic scent and plaintive horn,
Stars slyly winking while satellites hover,
I sit in the cool, robe cinched to cover
me – waiting for X to appear.
Cloudless blue sky – sight lines clear!
I strain my eyes and swivel my head.
But it doesn’t. Sigh. Off to bed.
3AM
Bitter smoke abounds.
Snap, crackle, pop. Stairs only.
Faster. Hot fire comes.
Maggie
Fantastic. She is
Black, bold, bright, brave. Bodacious
is my dog Maggie.
How Much
A pinch of this
A smidge of that
A jot, a dash, a handful.
A heaping scoop
A knob or two.
A drop, a splash, a whisker.
Din-ner!