POETRY
The Story We Tell Ourselves
A Poem
I.
Mabel eager, Thornton reluctant,
we plod along on nearby streets
pads clad and bare
attuned to tweets
hoping to spot a colorful feather
to pepper a dull day with joy.
Our deep affection for one another
roosts above class-consciousness
like gathered twigs and moss
chosen with a weaver’s intention
as though the future depends on it.
At every intersection Thornton wants to go left
I don’t know why — something in his genes
not his decision to make.
Burdened by sticky August air
we suffer the asphalt
bandage on earthen abrasions
poured long ago
like saltwater licorice taffy
rubbed raw, stretched
by wheels braking:
pulls that put a chew in it
solid in the moment
over scores of seasons, fluid,
sloughed off
like an aging face
flaunting its blemishes.
“Slow down, Mabel, it’s not a race.”
My neighbor smiles as we pass chuffing
I nod, they wag
his skin throws shade
my strands condescend
implicating each other
like a fender scrape
flecked with lifted paint.
Our suspicions loiter too long
cascading down generations
whose survival depends on heuristics:
deducing
that he prefers the extra trip to
asking for my egg
doubts the purity of my thoughts
that I resent his unclipped hedges
fear that his religion demands
he murder me
like a pride male cutting down future rivals
cruel enough to use that as an excuse.
But what do we know really?
Were it embraced by just a few
the idea of race would be vulnerable
a solitary termite exposed;
in large numbers
it swarms to devour the world.
II.
Many years ago in Boston when I studied there
waiting for the Red Line, Alewife,
one of the few transportation systems in America
where your ridership doesn’t broadcast desperation
and the stations boast a sort of civic pride
she saw me glance
so purely black I thought she may be blue
a glowing sheen
rippled upon her sculpted frame
blazing eyes
angry, defiant, exquisite
goddess of the night
the way she looked at me!
I felt I must be
a descendant of an ancient marble statue
marvelously chiseled
into flowing robes and snaking veins
drained of color
meeting visitors with vacant eyes.
Today inside Municipal Medical Center,
the resemblance is uncanny
it brings me back
how long I clung!
A search of healing art
now brings us here together
both complaining of chronic pains
to our souls
feeling we might die if we must keep living this way:
Is there no remedy?
Blood taken, urine given,
without labels all the samples seem the same;
science finds no differences
in our genes, though,
we think we know better.
III.
It must be culture that keeps us feeling separate
preferring the company of our false dichotomy
where mom and dad found strength
found identity
adopted a tradition supreme.
Others see my skin, see history,
think they know exactly who I am
believe this paved-over road leads back to Ham
but I am certain
it was built much later
that a thousand generations lived
without distinction
before taxonomy with an agenda
put names to patternicity
to camouflage perversion.
I am certain
marble and night
kissed at Creation.
Our favorite stories about ourselves
lies our children are given to memorize
when everything living is mostly blue.
