pye's baby: a compilation of lucid poetry

My Grandmother's Leg

One small cut above the Achilles tendon

cracking into swollen pockets of puss, golden

with rot. Drying bone peeking through ashen flesh

packed with decay.

The other leg cut above the knee.

She rubs hacked aloe vera leaf on the sores,

scent of stale summer air tucked among

small bottles of insulin and perfume.

In New Orleans, Creole women leap and rock in

street parades to saxophones and

beating drums, stomping

earth with bare feet.

In her garden, the roots of a

pear tree stabilize the ground we share.

I ask her, do all things get worse before they get better?

She responds calmly, not all birds fly.

Counting Sidewalk Cracks

At eight, I’d sit beside her and ask to read,

“Little Red Riding Hood”

going along, finger beneath

the sentences, occasionally skipping lines at a time.

Fingers faster than words, racing with myself

to finish first.

She told me to take my time.

One.

Two.

Three.

I’d sink onto the stoop watching collapsed

ropes rise over and over like a child on a trampoline.

clatter- stuffed air of cars passing, and horns, and laughter

and static from changing radio stations.

I’d count aloud before starting

again. My grandmother, singing sweet

rhythms for me to come in for supper. I‘d count

the steps up to the door

when it was time to leave.

One.

Two.

Three.

I need more time in between those steps and the end.

The two of us sitting at each side of the table pretending

to be royalty. I sip my tea first after being told not to

drink until I finish. One too many spoons of rice

fill my plate and then I smile, holding it

a second too

long.

All Crack-heads Can Sing

They wait for me on the corners.

I pass by them in my plaid uniform.

My mother tells me not to look at them,

I can’t help but stare. They don’t scare me.

They sing to me, early in the morning.

These ugly things sing well.

They jitter and stumble as they walk leaning

on the graffiti covered wall of the corner store.

They smell of the hospital, of the dirt,

of death. The air tastes

of must around them. The drugs oozing

out in their sweat. They reek.

These sad people can sing.

They sing for me. I’m their audience.

They put on a great show.

The traffic lights are their backgrounds,

the car horns their band.

They rock and roll, shooting that dope. They stand slant

on the pay phones that my mother tells me not to touch,

glaring at me, as I hop pass them.

These crack heads, can sing.

As I play, hot peas and butter in the afternoons,

They croon out tunes.

Using the ropes hitting the cement

from our game of double dutch

as the tempo to their song, their music

echoes throughout the street, bouncing off of the street

lights and pot holes.

They cry out songs in the middle of the night.

These dead people can sing. I hear it

through the screen of my barred window.

My mother tells me to not listen to them.

I listen.

They cry out to the moon.

They cry out melodies to God.

They cry for themselves.

It Comes in Threes

just like death,

the beginning , middle, and end

the father, the son, the holy spirit

you , me, and us.

the convergence of life all at once

brings tears that only the ocean could transmute.

the silence that holds only breath-

a never ending beginning.

while some choose fire,

i choose water.

do not mistake

the calm but undeniable

strength of the tide.

the same grace that

carries,

opens up

and envelopes

into no endings.

and just like the water

do not mistake

my peace

from the

irrefutable pain.

i have transmuted tears

into sweet honey

dripping

from my chin .

and just like the water,

know that my light

stems from the depth

of my darkness.

offerings,

filled with divinity

sit at the plates where

the source creates.

there is no sanctuary

like our clasped hands

and even now

we choose

stillness .

in every lifetime ,

my soul has been a

warrior of the light .

I asked, “what made you

call back your waters from

flooding this Earth?"

She responded,

“let me show you

all the lifetimes

we have risen.”

Brownstone Lady with Lipstick

I stand in my room tonight- 386 miles

from the vestibule of your brownstone building,

where you raised me. The smoked mahogany house

radiated heat throughout Brooklyn.

I stare in the mirror now and then, gazing at my own pupils

hoping to see you in me. It doesn’t work.

Fog smears the glossy mirror as I exhale

taking a step back. I am home alone.

Ma doesn’t act the same anymore; she tries not to remember you.

Last time I visited home m

snow capped the chimney and melted

slowly. It dripped down in the yard with your pear tree. It bends now.

Those kids keep playing in our gate. But it’s not ours anymore.

Your face placed in the center of the building, 662.

The crimson lipstick you made them paint onto full brick lips

and those piercing eyes that follow me as I turn away

from Halsey street.

The trees are naked and the cracks in the sidewalk are filled with grime.

No one sweeps anymore.

I try to conjure you.

No lights flicker. No cabinets open and close. I just feel the heat rise up

the back of my neck and I remember that

August day and the rosy perfume you wore that seemed to fill

the whole hall of the brownstone like the smell of gumbo

in your kitchen. I remember your full lips, the creases

on your forehead-

your sick dimples and silver hair cascading in

the hard air.