I always tell my dancers. You are not defined by your fingertips, or the top of your head, or the
bottom of your feet. You are defined by you. You are the expanse. You are the infinity.
Elizabeth Alexander in The Black Interior writes about beauty, and how black artists
resist monstrousness by their own self-definitions.
I’m interested in this repair, too, but find comfort in the ugly. I love monsters.
We both consider Brooks. In the poem, “The Life of Lincoln West,” when Elizabeth
hones in on two white men describing little, black Lincoln, specie, I zip to the poem’s
end, to what I read as Lincoln’s release: “it comforts him to be the real thing.”
I align after June Jordan, whom am I when pinched, patted, and bent?
Get behind her defense of Black English in On Call: How can I be who I am?
We do with what’s given. I suppose, I may not share viewpoints, but still,
I connect. Of prose, Meena Alexander says she uses it to clear the underbrush
to make space for the poem. Vacate fields, ropes, a body. Don’t hate on Elizabeth.
Do you. Frame how she pairs Brooks with Lawrence and Bearden.
To argue, she opens walls, and living rooms. So, you like death? Is your project
Fanon’s? Is this all a setup? Fan – on – it was a jolt in perception, then.
Pieces of this, repeat. Toni Morrison, where she writes: the remains of what were left
behind to reconstruct the world these remains imply.
Ties to Brooks’s litany of the black body that endures, a stream of violent verbs
to enter, under buzz and rows of halogen: burned, bricked, roped to trees, and bound.
Now, what contexts shift in the stacks that glare before you? And how do you return,
after, to what seized Brooks at Fisk, standing to face all those Blacks?