Carlos Andrés Gómez is a poet from New York City and a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Winner of the Lucille Clifton Poetry Prize, a finalist for the Gregory O’Donoghue International Poetry Prize, and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, his work has appeared in the North American Review, Rattle, Beloit Poetry Journal, Smartish Pace, and elsewhere. For more, please visit www.CarlosLive.com.
***
When Our Black Son Arrives
I will go back to my superstitions:
everything in threes, silent prayers,
rubber bands on wrists. A blood moon
will arrive the night before. The road
will lead us towards land flanked
by water on all sides, a formation
of fluttering magpies keeping guard
beneath steel beams. I will convince
myself I am not my father. I will call
my father and ask for advice. His voice
will echo on a three-second delay
as if from another realm. I will make
sure to stop cursing, no excuses,
I will work on my temper, ask
protection from gods I have
never believed in. Our homes will
get bigger but somehow, each day, feel
smaller. I will watch him resent my
jawline and admire my backbone, teach
him to tuck his elbow in on free throws.
I will wait by the door the first time
he takes the car out by himself. I will
have nothing to offer the stoic
night but clasped hands. And then,
I will wait. I will sit beside the front
door and wait.
