Ossature
by Marcus Jamison
There is pain
in the bone
of the thing,
flesh of my flesh,
blood & blood
of my blood, sun-fed
& split, this fissure
we bare for
generations.
When my brother says
“Boy, I will kill you!!”
black birds
claw a veil
on my tongue
what I need to say:
I understand—
I also rage
in this dark blood.
we harvest grief
beneath this skin.
It pools, at the site
of the bruise, pleads
to surface.
I also rage
in this dark blood.
we harvest grief
beneath this skin.
It pools, at the site
of the bruise, pleads
to surface.
what I want to say:
how the fuck you gon’ kill me?
when we all play dead so well.
when we all play dead so well.
***
Rage is an animal trapped in its own skin.
Day-to-day leans heavy. Bared teeth snap back.
am I my brother’s keeper?
***
fracture in the lost moment
where time hits, a glancing blow—
I was young & enamored
by him, his friends. I would
follow him anywhere.
A discourse swirls
in the static above us:
little brother
slow your roll.
Burnt by the world, I spit back shadow
I put work in (so) you ain’t have to
how you ever
gon’ check me?
slow your roll.
Burnt by the world, I spit back shadow
I put work in (so) you ain’t have to
how you ever
gon’ check me?
& this is how a moment splits open.
We wear these wounds, both want
to win. When my brother hits the ground,
I see his eyes. This is how we lose.