He cameto me

withdreams that stretched beyond

daddy’sinfinite acres,

my dutymanifested.

Evenoffered up promise

as if itwere a little gift

only arural gal could love.

When Isaid yes

we bothturned,

behindus

thetrain to Memphis

it tooon its way.

Thencame the new life:

too-highrents

too manybabies.

Justfour.

But howcould I believe

insilence after a chorus

ofhungry cries

or lookpast those frightful eyes

as theydiminished each evening

into thelonesome dark.

Whocould ignore their swelling bellies

tellingthe world of our failure.

Orbelieve a black child has needs

theworld can’t measure.

So weworked

fellinto this life.

Did whatwe could.

And whatyou are

is whatwe learned to sell and take.

I workedthe night shift

as arailroad man.

I tookmy tips, teased the air

withsmiles, nods, thank you ma’ams.

I placedbets when whisky

snakedmy veins

but Iwent home to Mississippi—

to pinetrees stretching

tall asprayer.

Somenights I danced.

She saysI gambled life

to tasteeasy feasts,

butthere was also this:

mestanding at the front door–

my moneyin one hand

mydreams buried years since.

Suburbanbarbeques, late-night bid whist parties,

laughterand frying fish crackling the air,

I comefrom Chicago,

broughtup on blues and beer

by menand women who worked the hard shift.

Descendantsof the northern migration,

theystaked their claim in the Midwest—

urban-drawnfolk who gave up back porch tales

for fastpromises of a greedy city.

Theybuilt churches and taverns side by side

and Iwas baptized in both.

I comefrom kitchens filled with cousinsauntsgodsistersplaybrothers,

livingrooms where halos of smoke crowned steppers

who madelove to Sam Cooke

whileothers nodded and snapped jeweled fingers,

tappedpolyester knees.

I grewup with Bobby Blue Bland, Donnie Hathaway, Stevie Wonder

singingme into fantasy, blocking out

the hardclamor of parental love.

I comefrom chronic rage raised up by whiskied glances,

mymother’s cries piercing my sleep as

the dogshits in the corner, too frightened by it all.

Mysisters pretend to sleep, not smell

thesting of cigarettes and wine nudging the air

separatingthe white officer and my father

whosefist, a glistening cannonball, silences my mother.

And allthe while B.B. King repeats himself, urging

themback to the blues of their youth.

I comefrom a house of dangerous surprise,

peoplemade mad by desire and dream.

Factoryworkers, truckers, mechanics

whoshowed frightening love, made holidays and birthdays

divinespectacles. Then,

thetimely blow. Still,

I grewstraight, found peace in the inbetween.

And whatof this?

I comefrom a people flawed and bruised

wholoved me while

tryingto love each other.