Ishmael
Dark-skinned boys in
a field. On one. Wind
matters. I won’t follow
him, I’m supposed
to shield, man: us
made out of my ability
to stay with him, to not
get left behind as he
breaks, turns his back,
places himself, boy
who is my man. Boy,
am I scared he will out
man me. Beautiful, tied
score. I am not afraid
to lose, just fail
the assignment. I love
him too much but not
enough to let him go.
I have my man and, boy,
is he beautiful. Won’t he
crash? Our skin liturgies,
jukes, fakes, formations,
cymbals, sickle-cell song
traits: hi-hats splashing
and potential him bets
on our release. Shoulders
clash: guard him, I think
but I am betting on this
route; slant, curl, fly—
we’ve got a ground game
he teases with my eyes.
Boy is he beautiful, man
to man, he is coming
my—task:
to mirror—
enemy.
***
Author photo by Marcus Jackson
