Monday, January 11, 2010

If I should die

before I wake, my soul is up for grabs--
that green room of my mind
prepares me for nothing. A child’s
prayer leads me by the hand through
dreams; hallways like throats,
dark and self-lubricating. The voice

before the swallow, the belly grumbles
while we pray, the need never seems
to leave. God, bless the daddy
of all-white children, those he terrorized
and the ones he did not.
Daddy, bless those children with
all-white children.

His love
for me unbent
like a coathanger snaking
through dark sensibility, snagging
anything foreign. If I should die
before this yearning breaks, a flood
around my feet....God bless the mommy and the daughter,

and the grandchildren, cinnamon and small. Say
a fragile prayer of something better
than grandpa’s hate for
that fragment of his population, dear daddy-god,
that he won’t reclaim. Bless God, I will not wait.

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