You are a River to your People

You are a River to your People

To a friend for his imprisoned son and all the Black Brothers who wade the draining tide.

You are a river to your people;

counted amongst the names

of those dead or alive,

incarcerated;

stirring the alluvial carnage

of a tentacled past;

Hung like Christmas ham

as homage for our harvest;

Up the Route 66 corridor

you fled and lept

‘cross snake soiled banks

where cottonmouths

spurned your holy step

and drowned your dream in whimpers.

From Canaanite hills

to Babylon dreams,

they deferred your Sargassian truth.

We know their dream;

their excess of love.

The rod and the staff give comfort.

The red rain

stings a porous page

of diluted history.

The spiked word

vaults ‘cross your indigenous waves

where sunlit whispers

baptized under a whipping moon.

A half-eaten peach

rides a naked current

and will not return.

The belly of Eve is bloated.

Her diasporian sin

brings us to the river

and invites us get in,

and we, like Eve

weep salty tears

on brackish waters

and wade the draining tide.

Rage, curse, and bless us now;

beat hell out on the binding bar.

You are a river to your people;

paid tribute for our sin,

defiled by the cuffs

that hold you back

they have replaced

the stripes that bore your back

rage, curse, and bless us now;

Mother Jones’ cookie jar is hidden

and our belated, sugar-coated

Mr. Goodbar consciousness

oddly, sadly… bedridden.

January 2009