No moments of silence here. Not now
or at midnight or when something alarms
at 3am. Repetitive rumble of AC just outside
the window. The clock’s yakety yak each second.
The loud red of a truck or a car yowling
blue lights. Forever bringing some kind of blues.
A constant ghost. Whispered truth, bruised knees
pleading for someone to hear her testify.
Threadbare synapses stitched
into my cortex, a patchwork of questions and
fear. Here, the soil speaks through gritted teeth.
Here, we bite back with our toes clenching
blood mud. Here, the sun pushes us
into the ground and down into dusk.
The katydids shine their song until its return.
Enough of this noise, though:
I know a South where I was called
OREO from mouths shaped and shaded
like mine. What’s a black girl not black
enough? And I know
a pale-faced, dandelion-haired South
whose mama wants to know why
Katie didn’t say all of who I was before
she invited me to her first boy/girl party.
Whoever will she dance with? she asked.
What’s a girl too
black to do?
I know a South where I will never go. Even if
they say the road is yellow-bricked with
good intentions, I know no good intentions ever
clicked their heels three times to save a body like me.
I know a South so stuck always in mythology, it wants
to read me who I am even in the should-be quiet of night.
Back to the noise:
The radio fuzzing through the wall from another room.
Locusts in conference at the base of the maple.
A pecan strikes the rooftop, and I
no longer jump, only hope it means
a wind strong enough to loosen the tree’s
fist is a wind near enough for relief.
The owl inside my brain asks who, who
who all night long.
