Four Ways of Looking at A Spreading Fire
I
The obsidian boy jumps across his bed from corner to corner
in a blue mask & satin red cape. His LED sword slices
San Jose air like warm bread at the panaderia down the street.
At three years old, he saves the world,
bellows with victory at monsters in his room,
blinds the underside of his bed with green & yellow
streaks from his plastic blade, all before six o’ clock dinner:
mahogany table, complete with matching chairs & placemats,
his heroes sitting around the table with him—mom, dad, big mama
& family friends who speak more Spanish than they do.
Incomplete. He looks around as if he’s missing someone else—
as if every cell in his body knows someone’s warm body
should fill the chair beside him.
II
In ’95, a Black man & his son could walk
golden streets, set ablaze in five o’clock shine,
& shadows cooled to asphalt by seven forty-five.
Wednesday: Jack-in-the-Box fries crunch
between our teeth on the walk home,
some fittylem minutes away from the nearest
air conditioner. I’m sure he made fittylem a thing
before it became household slang. He lifted me
above his head carried me on his shoulders
until we arrived at a barren parking lot
& chain-link fences laced with rust.
My mother yelled from a block away: ¡Muévete!
III
On my thirteenth birthday, my grandmother called the school—
Hello? Yes, I’ll be picking up my grandson early.
When she pulled up, I opened the passenger side door,
her face gray as spring clouds folding over each other
to hide the sun. Put ya seatbelt on, na she’d fiercely mumble
a half-beat after I sighed, trembling in our black Ford Expedition.
The air crystallized between our two shoulders,
cold as woe. It don’t matter what happens next, ya hear?
You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout him.” My DNA was part of a man
I never knew. I was supposed to be mad at him, because they were
mad at him. But how could I throw him away? I never held his hand
never shared a meal, never felt his warmth in threads of my blanket.
We arrived at a building tucked away behind century-old trees.
Spring leaves thawed. Dripping water broke the silence
between our lips. Inside, the lab technician asks, blood draw or cheek swab?
IV
Lee was an active father always did what a father does.
Thursday: we walk into the brisk arena, our own winter
cast in the middle of eighty-five-degree weather,
pucks floating around the ice-white rink,
day-old Oreos on a lake of frozen milk.
A San Jose Sharks jersey, too bulky
for my three-year-old frame,
hangs in a treasured glass case, waits
for hundreds of people—too busy
to notice—to pass by.
Watermelon Man in the Plaza
—after Poncho Sanchez’s rendition of “Watermelon Man”
Mongo Santamaria sets up his band
in the center of the plaza. Women danzón
in sundresses, guys circle up in their American muscle
& the fishmonger washes his hands
of the morning’s catch. Kids are away
hushed beneath the nose of a meter stick.
Music pierces the bustle & Watermelon Man comes
strolling across cobblestone. He carries a wagon
full of them. Points his finger: Split or whole?
Split or Whole?
Mama rented a California apartment
where walls shouted
for light to shoot
the breeze for a while. My room filled
with angels: a subtle knock
on the door, man dressed in white
his bald, chocolate head shielded from the heat
with a matching Kango—the coconut
kind. Stuck out his nighted hand tore off
the white popsicle wrapper inside, slim & shady
frosted purple skin—grape twin pops.
Popsicles. Pop. Sicles.
Pop. Sickles.
It would’ve been nice to take me
for a walk for a ride
for a day for two.
Help me understand
why I’ve been split in two.
***
Author photograph courtesy of Thomas Kneeland
