|
Maternal love,
safe in my emerging intellect,
rolling wheels on rolling bikes
to bonfires on the beach at night–
glimmers of what safety could be.
They fed me on the porch.
Haircuts & pornography.
In heavy gang territory,
errands felt like secret missions.
Strays find themselves, never alone
in the neighboring gardens.
Always thought we were grown,
parents were strict, always wanted us home.
I carry with me the memory
of eyes always watching,
not necessarily my own.
I remember
Bubblegum Bubblegum in a Dish,
wishing on stars for everyone to get a piece or a plate,
I remember bb gun wars, no aiming for the eyes,
never do that to a homie.
Redheads, golden Puerto Rican twins,
the Black boy with freckles & his extended kin–
how beautiful we were,
our stubbed toes found the places worms left
when we unfurled our blue plastic runway.
Golden sun hitting elaborate crowns
of bugs on their way to reclaiming opacity.
Sitting on that buzzy green electric box,
our future feels like a block party–
everybody on the block here celebrating
another summer in the D,
somebody making sure that we all eat.
I want to breathe life again:
warmth in the winter,
cool places and refuge in the summer,
a care center with
simple pleasures,
nowhere to be.
A big hill,
a place to swim,
lush green and restless blues,
our skin that barely dries,
frames with several generations
of presence and care.
Nothing is hoarded,
there is no need to guard it.
We know how to let it all out, no judgment,
free jazz,
grilling salmon & asparagus,
smoking cigarettes,
cannon balled into a pool &
ordinary plates are spaceships,
a guest’s room for a reason–
all for you, Storyteller.
Bottles move around–
sexless, ageless ramps,
swap clothes, gift the light,
mothers were there, at work,
fighting with their boyfriends–
ask questions:
How are you?
What do you need?
Do you feel heard?
not the occasional married gay friend,
people living rawly,
honestly,
exoterically,
I am grateful to have witnessed.
| 
