Three poems
- Three poems
Between 1916 and 1970, more than half a million African Americans left the South and migrated to Chicago.
Fixed on the Next Star
Mamas go quietly crazy, dizzied by the possibilities of a kitchen, patiently plucking hairs from the skin of supper. Swinging children from thick forearms, they hum stanzas riddled with Alabama hue and promises Jesus may have made. Homes swerve on foundations while, inside, the women wash stems and shreds of syrup from their palms and practice contented smiles, remembering that it’s a sin to damn this ritual or foul the heat-sparkled air with any language less than prayer. And they wait for their loves, men of marbled shoulders and exploded nails, their faces grizzled landscapes of scar and descent. These men stain every room they enter, drag with them a stench of souring iron. The dulled wives narrow their eyes, busy themselves with clanging and stir, then feed the sweating soldiers whole feasts built upon okra and the peppered necks of chickens. After the steam dies, chewing is all there is—the slurp of spiced oil, the crunch of bone, suck of marrow. And then the conversation, which never changes, even over the children’s squeals: They say it’s better up there, it begins, and it is always the woman who says this, and the man lowers his head to the table and feels the day collapse beneath his shirt. [End Page 46]
One Way to Run from It
The damned boll weevil hisses his good-bye while cypresses drip low in steamed salute and satchel-toting travelers multiply, affixed to that bright dream—the absolute reversal of their root. Their gospel hum dissuades the Delta dog, his resolute pursuit of traitors’ souls. The city’s drum, the new unyielding, slaps old backdrops dark. Chicago, frigid siren, murmurs Come while hiding how she fails—December’s stark and violent entry into bone, the ways a factory’s drone can siphon every spark of will. She boldly lures them with clichés: the gilded path, the blur of black and white. Seduced, they set their Southern pasts ablaze. Intent on fresh religions, taking flight without their wings, they’re stunned in hurtling seats. The train moans in a way that ain’t quite right. [End Page 47]
How Mamas Begin Sometimes
Raging tomgirl, blood dirt streaking her thick ankles and bare feet, she is always running, screech raucous, careening, dare and games in her clothesline throat. Playing like she has to play to live, she shoves at what slows her, steamrolls whatever damn thing won’t move. Aliceville, Alabama’s no fool. It won’t get in her way. Where’s that girl going? Past slant sag porches, pea shuck, twangy box guitars begging under purple dayfall. Combs spitting sparks, hair parted and scalps scratched, mules trembling the back road, the marbled stares of elders fixed on checkerboards. Cursed futures crammed into cotton pouches with pinches of bitterroot, the horrid parts of meat stewed sweet and possible. And still, whispers about the disappeared, whole souls lost in the passage. Frolicking blindly, flailing tough with cousins, sisters, but running blaze, running on purpose, bounding toward away. She can’t tag this fever, but she believes it knows her, owns her in a way religion should. Toes tap, feet flatten out inside the sin of shoes. She is most times asking something, steady asking, needing to know, needing to know now, taking wing on that blue restless that drums her. Twisting on rusty hinge, that old porch door whines for one long second ’bout where she was.
But that girl gone. [End Page 48]
Patricia Smith is the author of six poetry volumes, including the upcoming Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah, which will be published in April, and Blood Dazzler, a finalist for the 2008 National Book Award. Her work has been published in Poetry, the Paris Review, Tin House, TriQuarterly, and the 2011 editions of both Best American Poetry and Best American Essays. She is a professor at the City University of New York.
