Blues
For Sonny
Appointment Canceled
Wake
Living
By Example
Janie
Doe 2001
West
Virginia
A
Biased Communion
Mantra in the Middle of January
She wanted to fly like
us
experience peanuts and ginger ale at 35, 000 feet
Rent metal wings and
hurtle through the sky at speeds
our legs can't fathom
Free to defy
Autism's gravity and simply be
the passenger in seat 13E
She was coasting
A look-ma-no-hands smile
resplendent on her face
It was my fear that
shortened her ride
as I led her by the hand
to the front of the line
Telling the attendant indiscreetly
to keep watch
that she is "different"
The disbelief in her embarrased
unblinking 21-year-old stare cut deep
Why?
Why did you do that to me?
But the answer meant nothing
at the time
as we stood dimmed in regret
I painfully relearn that
even toddlers must fall in their quest to walk
A hug gone too far crushes
and ultimately
A ventilated love is always superior
to one that smothers
Teary and
holding her dignity
Big sister sorrys
drip from my lips
And she
bruised but standing
turns to exit through the gate
Her flight home
a lesser altitude
Playground henchmen trail
me
their steps crunching twigs and earth
nipping at my heel
Nerf-ball taunts whizz
by my ear
graze shoulders but
miss the heart by several inches
I head towards dinner and love
abandoning jellybean rivalries that
won't mean much once we trade
Arithmetic for Algebra
Wiping salty words off my brow
like play's sweat
Until a few yards later
THAT'S WHY YOUR LITTLE SISTER IS A RETARD
tears into my Achilles' tendon
I go down fighting
Taking them with me
Forever silencing their ignorance
in a hail of fist fire
Except I rise from this
battlefield
Lakie's honor saved
gauze and hydrogen peroxide fizzing
in broken skin
She hated those short yellow buses
The implications felt each day that
it pulled up sighing
to McMurray Jr. High’s curb
Delivering her to those 7th grade mouths
that leave few scarless
the doctors had trouble
locking my sister into a symptom box
and rotely affixing a label
unsure of where to store her
they suggested an institution
but my parents brought her home
to the warmth of her
Winnie the Pooh bedsheets
fully aware of what happens to precious goods
abandoned
in human warehouses
I show up every morning
Take roll and assure their parents
I have a miracle plan tailored
for each one
It's a paycheck
I have the population
the others don’t want
How does one look out
into a room of leg braces
and mute stares expecting
to find a spark?
I register them with
the Special Olympics
Bring in Oreos and Hi-Ci for the Christmas party
Xerox their initial progress reports
(some years old)
to re-sign
Tell them what a joy it is
to have them in my class
see them out to the short yellow buses
and go home
I stopped crying after the first year
Stopped trying after the second
They never felt like
lies
Until I was caught
This is the first parent to hold me to them
Most give mecredit for smiling
In the class picture
Before the Board
I ask for leniency and forgiveness
But not for the sacrificial lamb
On the altar of my apathy
My pension is at stake
She moved to the djimbe
Heeding blood rhythms
Tacit black woman hips engaged
in lively dialogue
Her sweat-soaked face shone
An amber moon
Wren-like feet fluttered the pace
as limbs flew
on the drum's demand
Dance beautiful one,
reach for the sky
and sway to Earth's floor.
Feel the groove little sister,
dance 'til you can't dance no more.
Everyone took turns
in the center of clapping hands
Ululations caught and thrown back
from the corners of the room
Village call and response for
the original Soul Train line
This isn’t a history lesson or some gruesome allegory
They found a little black
girl without her head
so she can no longer watch God
or look in the mirror
Discarded in the brush like a tortured barbie
for all the world not to see
They keep finding broken
children
all over the place
And we follow our schedules business as usual
Stepping over
torn hearts
flesh scarred by fires of neglect
bruised privates in strange uncles’ hands
maimed souls
severed lives
on our way home to feel sorry for ourselves
The babies aren’t arriving or leaving here intact
Crack mothers are real
We still must Till the bottom of ponds for them
Collect bomb-scattered bits for souvenirs of halted dreams
Now
Teachers stand in front of classrooms
teaching pieces of children
Trying to do what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
couldn’t do
Mending beautiful shells allowed to fall
way too soon
They keep finding the
kids
full of holes from sanctioned guns
in Ohio/California/insert your state here
discovering them
detached
from themselves
They found yet another one here in Kansas City
Somebody has her head because
too often
few of us have their backs
God bless our little ones
surviving daily carnage
whole
Forcing the world to see
The child didn't know
she was saving me
she was too busy being 7
when she stepped to me
braids askew with
dried snot defiant above her lip
Declaring more than asking,
"I'm pretty, ain't I?"
"Very," I said.
And she was
because She thought it so
Yellow-colored man strumming
a jazzy blues
that never amounted to much green
(playing behind Bird it’s hard to be seen),
but that wasn't his bottom line.
He just wanted you to hear
what his life sounded like;
to see the house on the street of the town
he grew up in, and the friends he had
that didn't survive.
He played all of this every night for years
like it wasn't much--
like the music wasn't him giving
everything he had.
I saw him near the end,
basked in the residual light
of Sonny's day.
I wondered why I cried that way--
did something in his song whisper
he was about to go home?
He growled a moving lullaby
about owning up and getting by.
His hands shook in anticipation
as the last note faded.
Between the weather and
an in-depth feature on a famous dog’s death ,
KMBC News told of his demise.
Flashed a brief clip of silver hair,
the water brimming his eyes.
He was born. He lived. He died.
He sometimes played guitar.
I knew right away they never heard him,
still didn't know the gleam of his star.
They mentioned Sonny Kenner used to be here
like it was nothing--
like his fingers had worshipped rosewood frets
all these years
for no reason.
In the land of numbered
cities and hills that hog the sun,
stories are told in porchboards that always creak in the same places;
houses that remain homes because
the memories chose to stay behind after the U-Haul pulled off
or after the dirt settled back into the earth.
Nestled among peaks valued
for their coal,
I mine the treasures of why
my eyes go down in the corners like they do,
my love and natural ear for music,
my thirst for knowledge comparable to my hunger
for cornbread and greens simmered in tales
of my father's childhood antics;
the pleasant surprise of hearing my laugh
come out of someone else's mouth
that I rarely get to see but automatically know
like the words to Amazing Grace.
Who I am and where I've
been are in this place.
Caught in trees that have claimed my cousins kites,
resting in ditches my uncles once jumped over on dirt bikes.
Mixed in the dust covering hard-earned diplomas
that escaped the fate of cleaning floors and
cooking someone else's dinner...
noticing ample bosoms and round hips--
perhaps I wasn't meant to be much thinner.
Sired by strong, determined men
who blazed their own trails, had the nerve to
shed the slave name,
tend the land,
preach the Word,
and croon rhythm and blues while
paying life's dues.
Now,
I no longer fit on one knee,
and my last two visits have been to say goodbye
to great-aunts who inquired about grades and
marveled at how much I've grown,
to mark their ascent above these hills
containing the story of our lives.
I can't help but smile
through tears,
promise the next visit won't be in years,
and pay close attention to the past and present
coursing through my veins
with each heartbeat.
I licked your deepest
wounds like they were mine,
the blood wine of them
staining my tongue
for life.
You traced my curved spine,
kissing along my imperfect symmetry…but now
your chaste lips
deny me again and again,
vows flat as unleavened
bread.
Believe your soul if
you can’t believe
your eyes
your ears
someone else’s tongue…
This humming within
is spreading
Contaminating my Pain
breaking it down
Freeing my Joy
Sometimes we must taste
asphalt
Suck blood from split lips as we learn
to move past survival
Thriving anyway
For me it took loving
someone
more than I loved myself
Only to watch my lover walk away smug
like I asked for spare change
To not take myself for granted again
To stop ignoring the hum
that guides us all to our
truth
nia
manna
glory
salvation
If we would just pay attention
Place our hands to our
bellies
and memorize the vibration of what it means
to wear our own skin
Recognize other souls that are truly kin
To drive by but not stall
in places we’ve been
The sound growing louder and sweeter
An ancient calling remembered
as we approach the horizon
It can be a treacherous
journey
preceeding each chance to
jump at de sun
or chase the moon
A stony road to discovering satisfaction
in the effort alone
Ahhhhh
to finally sit at life’s table
with a tall glass of lemonade
pleased with my own hand
accepting of the way I’m playing it
Tapping my fingers to the divine hum
that was always there
that will never leave
that will lead me home