Rumpus Original Poetry: Two Poems by Alexa Patrick
The first boy to call me beautiful
had hair like a waving fist, walked
down the hallway, radius of curl
beckoning white hands that he’d
allow, though, I’d watch a little
light in him dim to tar. This,
a language us onlies have,
where no language need exist
at all.
Survival.
Head nod.
Richie was his name, but
he came to our town escaping
a poor Bronx corner. Moved
in with a white family, started
playing lacrosse. Think
Fresh Prince meets
The Blind Side meets
other stories of roots lost
for progress
This, while I convinced myself
to like salad just for the Abercrombie
jeans hanging in my closet.
Pushed straight hair over scabs
on my scalp; the need to fit
louder than the burn
crawling up my neck
Most times, his friends,
no-lip white boys, spit
in my direction, then, messaged
me to ask what my mouth
might do, knowing they’d pass
me in hallways later
laughing
laughing
laughing
Imagine my joy
looking down to see his name
lighting the phone, a new tone
ringing as blood pushed
and softened the Black
of my cheeks
Ur beautiful
from the only boy who might understand
what those words mean
but don’t tell ne1 I said that, ok?
The Black Men Outside The Waterfront Safeway Serenade Me
*this poem uses lines from “Walk on By” by Dionne Warwick
Smoke pours from the well of their mouths,
waltzes to the moon and gasps.
The crowd around is the same crowd
always around; the only city
that does not move
unless there is a song
Concrete glosses to sheet vinyl
as they hum the names of women
who broke their hearts, I,
carry a dinner I will not share,
avoiding their sequin retinas,
bringing a phone to my ear to speak to no one.
Walk on by, walk on by, make me believe…
They must know the number of quiet Saturdays
the father I haven’t heard from—
the static on the other end
Foolish pride is all that I have left
Let me hide…
They stand, monuments to themselves,
in the middle of white marble,
cleaned and surveilled incessantly.
I, too, expect to too many eyes,
not enough hands (not gentle ones)
I just can’t get over losing you
And so if I seem broken…
I worry my loneliness is
the loudest thing about me,
but I drown in the men’s spilling.
One even used his good knee
to climb the rickety bench,
arms open like sky
Miss Lady! Miss Lady! I know you hear me!
***
Author photo by Carletta Girma