I. Kwasiada

for Trayvon Akwasi Benjamin Martin

 Kwasiada 1995–Kwasiada 2012

I name him Akwasi,

whom you also call Trayvon.

My week’s beginning,

my worship—

anointed, yellow, new.

My week begins with flight

because he prays to me

only: let me grow old enough

to be my own pilot, to fly my own skies.

Each night, I paint his

eyelid interiors cerulean and wisp.

He sees himself boarding

the latest Airbus A350

in crisp First Captain digs:

a deep navy coat and slacks,

overlain with bulbous gold buttons.

Three gold stripes on each shoulder

Three gold stripes on each sleeve.

His silver aviation wings are pinned

squarely; just left of a slim lapel,

above the crease of his breast-pocket,

along with a Jacksonville Jaguars pin,

because this year will finally be the year.

He nods to the head flight attendant

and gives his co-pilot a close-tuck dap,

before beginning the aircraft’s careen

along the runway.

The tenor and water of his south-Florida drawl

meld with the plane’s PA system like morninglight

mingled with dew: Ladies and gentlemen

this is your Captain speaking—

black boy pilot,

keeping black boy skies.

Even during turbulence

he measures the water

in each cloud.

Steer, measure, steer.

Titling heavy wings through

nesting cloud-water.

My week bleeds open

without its beginning.