- Before the (Re)showing of Medgar Evers, His Son Sits Alone
I search for the birthmark a fueled manwith rifle gave you, a bullet that mistookyou as lifeless, magnified your name throughthe dense tunnel of America without askingfor permission, and your chest took him inlike an old secret hidden in mattress. The bulletthrew his hands up, gave conspirator away ininterrogation, made my baby-boy-hate burylove, long before I would get to the real oflife, the magic of the sun—now we resume.
I never bought that yellow odious lie fromtheir tongues, claiming you dislodged. Lostto your cause. Daddy, they don't know you.Don't know I've become your twin, will kill illwords for justice, wish to handle your ears withhomonyms, and squeeze you into man-laughter,as you sit next to me now, Dressed to the tee,
man. I'm still coughing up cotton in throat,still craving, still seeking like a prophet, lookingfor sanctuary. I got my stripes honest. It took Mamatwo life-times to get one grain of justice, so I knowyour blood matters, coagulates into a crazy head-spell within me. Daddy … before you go back …I lost my mind for thirty years, blind forever,until today, until this moment. Now let me helpyou back into the casket. There's still resurrection. [End Page 151]
Curtis L. Crisler is a visiting assistant professor of creative writing at Indiana-Purdue, Fort Wayne. A Cave Canem fellow, his book Tough Boy Sonatas was published in 2007.