Find and share the perfect poems.
when I dropped my 12-year-old off at her first homecoming dance, I tried not to look her newly-developed breasts, all surprise and alert in their uncertainty. I tried not to imagine her mashed between a young man's curiousness and the gym's sweaty wall. I tried not picture her grinding off beat/on time to the rhythm of a dark manchild; the one who whispered “you are the most beautiful girl in brooklyn” his swag so sincere, she'd easily mistaken him for a god.
& then the poet became G D/like
just’a rolling his tongue everywhere
like G O D must’ve
when the earth got birth(ed) & even
after the fertile soil turned
over on herself/ & the sky--a mix
between "blue&what you looking @?"
(that was sometime afta the 5th day)
when the crumbling grit shook her grin
loose crossed each arm & said
“Man? Nah…we good”
If you ain’t never watched your parents kiss
ain’t neva have them teach you
‘bout the way lips will to bend & curve
against a lover’s affirmation
If you ain’t never watched the knowing nod
of sweethearts worn away & soft
as a speaker box’s blown out hiss
If you ain’t witnessed the glue
that connected your mother & father
—how they fused their single selves
into the blunt fist of parents
If you ain’t sure there was a time when
their eyes held each other like a nexus
breaking the lock to dip dark marbles
into certain corners of a shot glass
If you ain’t never known a Saturday night
slick with shiny promises & clouds
wrapped wet in a Pendegrass croon
If you ain’t been taught how
a man hold you close so close
…it look like a crawl
If you ain’t had the memory
of your mother & father sliding
hip to hip Their feet whisper
a slow shuffle & shift Her hand
on his neck grip the shoulder of
a man that will pass his daughters
bad tempers & hands like bowls
If you ain’t watched a man
lean into a woman His eyes
a boat sliding across bronze
His hands
pillared in her auburn hair Her
throat holds the urge
to hear how her voice sounds against
the wind of him
If your skin can’t fathom the heat
of something as necessary as this…
Then you can’t know the hurricane
of two bodies how the bodies
can create the prospect of a sunrise
how that sunrise got a name
it sound like: a blues song;
a woman’s heart breaking;
From the record player skipping
the sky almost
blue
Bam got tight eyes
Real tight
He crazy, girl
But he fun to be around
He’s so funny
He the life of the party
He the oldest of them boys over on Alcatraz
He love them birds – the pigeons
That’s what I heard
He got a cage in the backyard
He got a cage on the roof
He make the cage out of cardboard & wire
He scale roofs
He think he (can) fly
I heard he stole the pigeon from Albert’s coop
All them boys went looking for Bam
He just waited for them on the stoop
I heard they went looking through his flock
Heard they ain’t found nothing
Heard they ain’t believe him
I heard his daddy made him fight them one-on-one
Everybody know they call him Bam cause of his hands
Cause his eyes so tight & you never know when he go boom!
He always had quick hands
That’s how he call them birds back home
The rough of his hands clapping & singing loud
That’s how he fought them boys
His hands ain’t but a blur
He slap against the wind & win
Them boys ain’t never forgot
But hell, what they goin’ do—he see everything
His eyes so tight you never know what he thinking
He cracked his knuckles & they jumped on him
He clap his hands fast & it sound like a splintered bone
They say the it sound like firecrackers
He say the birds can hear him that way
He say if he clap loud enough they know to come home
He say home with his mouth big & smiling
But his eyes never change, he’s so handsome
They say that’s how he knew where to hide Albert’s pigeon
Say he hid Albert’s bird behind the broken board
His eyes shine like crazy laughter man lightning
He got hands like his daddy
His hands are so quick
—They steal anything worth something
Don’t you think you should have another child?
This girl I have is hardtack and dried lime
and reminds me, every groggy morning,
what a miracle it must have been
when outfitters learned to stock ship holds
with that one long lasting fruit. How the sailors’ tongues,
landing on its bitter brilliance, must have cursed
the curse of joy, as I did that morning the burst
of water brought my sweet girl into our lives.
But, already, she hates me sometimes.
Like I have sometimes hated my mother and she
must have sometimes hated her own.
After weeks at sea, the limes would desiccate and the meal
fill with worms. They would have eaten
anyway, the sailors, but taken no pleasure from anything.
Or taken no pleasure from anything but
the fact of their sustained lives. Which is to say it is all
I can do, most days, not to swallow
her up and curse her maker, I swear. Like I have not
sworn since the morning she was born.