Truncation of the means

The Golden Shovel


after Gwendolyn Brooks



I. 1981



When I am so small Da's sock covers my arm, we

cruise at twilight until we find the place the real



men lean, bloodshot and translucent with cool.

His smile is a gold-plated incantation as we



drift by women on bar stools, with nothing left

in them but approachlessness. This is a school



I do not know yet. But the cue sticks mean we

are rubbed by light, smooth as wood, the lurk



of smoke thinned to song. We won't be out late.

Standing in the middle of the street last night we



watched the moonlit lawns and a neighbor strike

his son in the face. A shadow knocked straight


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Maybe it'll be kinder to turn our backs; the crowd beats

Mother to Son

by Langston Hughes


Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now—

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

- Langston Hughes

Who? I don't know anyone by that name.

Siblings


Hurricanes, 2005





Arlene learned to dance backwards in heels that were too high.

Bret prayed for a shaggy mustache made of mud and hair.

Cindy just couldn't keep her windy legs together.

Dennis never learned to swim.

Emily whispered her gusts into a thousand skins.

Franklin, farsighted and anxious, bumbled villages.

Gert spat her matronly name against a city's flat face.

Harvey hurled a wailing child high.

Irene, the baby girl, threw pounding tantrums.

José liked the whip sound of slapping.

Lee just craved the whip.

Maria's thunder skirts flew high when she danced.

Nate was mannered and practical. He stormed precisely.

Ophelia nibbled weirdly on the tips of depressions.

Philippe slept too late, flailing on a wronged ocean.

Rita was a vicious flirt. She woke Philippe with rumors.

Stan was born business, a gobbler of steel.

Tammy crooned country, getting the words all wrong.

Vince died before anyone could remember his name.

Wilma opened her maw wide, flashing rot.



None of them talked about Katrina.

She was their odd sister,

the blood dazzler.

- Patricia Smith

All kids are the same, we just treat them different

Little Brown Baby

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes,

Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee.

What you been doin', suh — makin' san' pies?

Look at dat bib — you's es du'ty ez me.

Look at dat mouf — dat's merlasses, I bet;

Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his han's.

Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit,

Bein' so sticky an sweet — goodness lan's!


Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes,

Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile?

Who is it all de day nevah once tries

Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile?

Whah did you git dem teef? My, you's a scamp!

Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin?

Pappy do' know you — I b'lieves you's a tramp;

Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in!


Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san',

We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah;

Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man;

I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah.

Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do',

Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat.

Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo',

Swaller him down f'om his haid to his feet!


Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up close.

Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy.

He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se;

He's pappy's pa'dner an' play-mate an' joy.

Come to you' pallet now — go to yo' res';

Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies;

Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'—

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes!

- Paul Laurence Dunbar