Her father said don’t stay out late,
his hand too long on her shoulder.  
I would have driven a mower into the side
of his blue Camaro but my feet couldn’t 
reach the pedals. I could have punched

high enough to graze the perfect arc
of his jaw, but I wasn’t strong yet. 
My mother promised me height,
a broad chest, and hands big enough 
to sing all the songs of war.

His smile swung its hook above us,
so we leapt gates, she and I.
Pretend you’re a scorpion
and I’ll be the peregrine, talons out.
You can’t hide!

Our paths tore grass,
crazed gnats in the fallow. 
Deer flies followed us back home 
and needled into dreams in which 
we shed skin like wool and writhed 

under pins and wires—because bugs have bugs
that bite ’em. I dreamt of feeding pieces
of myself into the mouth of a beast 
until the beast outweighed my fear.  
When we woke starred with bites, her father 

flung her against the wall as if to slap dust
off a rug. His handprint on her faded slow 
as water off a handkerchief. The things 
we were taught had something to do 
with mosquitos hurtling themselves at us

like there was a law for it, with her mother
dozing in the window, and with what touch does
to make a girl a castaway bird, grieving 
from the boughs, an out-in-the-open orphan 
gentling toward a dying time.  

I couldn’t muster the courage to ask 
how she could still vault a rain barrel in sheer glee. 
Only allowed to finger the last knot of her hair, 
I kept chasing till my legs were a twist 
of nerves and brittle gears.

I am neither strong nor tall 
and my hands can’t grasp 
beyond the quiet in us, wary as deer 
in the clearing where she’d command me 
to undress. Lay down. Don’t move. 

I wanted to believe wasps could fumble 
painlessly against us like snow 
tumbled from the leaves’ miscellaneous hands. 
She wanted to be dangerous, the one 
giving orders, and so on ad infinitum . . .

all seven wonders of the world
and gas cans with no matchbox symphonies.
Let us be the opposite of riot aftermath
and let us feel the way the rain gutter feels
after it has been swept clean by the current.
Let us feel like we did our jobs today.

Let us taste something less bitter
and smell something sweeter.
Let our eyes remain dry
and our knuckles stay home,
away from brick wall reunion
and ask the other fists that meet there
to stay away from our cheekbones.

Let us listen to something more powerful
than that of a thousand man choir,
or rather, let us become it.
Let our pillows call us to them
and let us arrive
before the sun comes up tomorrow.

Let our tongues be soft again—
Razor blades are not at home here,
behind our teeth.
Let us be alive without anything
asking us not to be.

Tonight–
let us be
at peace.
Let us be
equal,
as you said
we were all created
to be.

One does such work as one will not,
    And well each knows the right;
Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot,
    The black must serve the white.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s softening flesh,
    While the black man’s muscles grow!
Well I know which grows the mightier,
    I know; full well I know.

The white man seeks the soft, fat place,
    And he moves and he works by rule.
Ingenious grows the humbler race
    In Oppression’s prodding school.
And it’s, oh, for a white man gone to seed,
    While the Negro struggles so!
And I know which race develops most,
    I know; yes, well I know.

The white man rides in a palace car,
    And the Negro rides “Jim Crow”
To damn the other with bolt and bar,
    One creepeth so low; so low!
And it’s, oh, for a master’s nose in the mire,
    While the humbled hearts o’erflow!
Well I know whose soul grows big at this,
    And whose grows small; I know!

The white man leases out his land,
    And the Negro tills the same.
One works; one loafs and takes command;
    But I know who wins the game!
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s shrinking soil.
    As the black’s rich acres grow!
Well I know how the signs point out at last,
    I know; ah, well I know!

The white man votes for his color’s sake.
    While the black, for his is barred;
(Though “ignorance” is the charge they make),
    But the black man studies hard.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s sad neglect,
    For the power of his light let go!
So, I know which man must win at last,
    I know! Ah, Friend, I know!