Cartize, for Brittanica

Looks like car/ties, not Cortez, which is what your mother meant, but chose not to spell when, alone, she named you. Last name Durham. Middle names Barnard Aries. Nickname Buckeye, for your bucked eyes, round and glorious, they saw you into your future, celebrated with gunshots and American flags. Born January 10, 1977, Bossier City, Louisiana. Capricorn. Second-to-the-oldest of five, two girls and three boys. Raised in the projects, you broke out. Talked white, folks said. But when you called on Friday nights, after tackles and touchdowns, glory hung around your voice when you said “Tameka” like a sweet. Believed yourself to be ugly back then. Did you learn the lie of that? Decorated your body in Greek letters and fatigues, to stand out, to hide. Died a captain, November 8, 2007, in Friuli-Venezia Giulia, Italy. When the Blackhawk that carried you like a bad mother spent out of control and broke into one million pieces of metal and empty mechanical scraps, it ripped you and your gear, you and your gun, you and your helmet, you and your skin, you and your pink and red and taupe and purple and black organs, you and your breath, you and your seed, all, to shreds. After, the light kissed all the broken pieces, you, a psychedelic tapestry of human, of man. Did you see you fly again, skyward? Just then, a chill wrapped around your mother, who could have been our mother. If. In a breath, she went insane, Cartize. You always wanted to rule, to take flight. Cartize. Superstar back then, master of the thing Black girls wanted to groove. Beneath. The names of your first loves burn next to mine. Who can remember running through water sprinklers with you during the muggy nights of July? Just one night, Cartize. Wanted to love every woman, your body a six foot mass of honeyed whispers, sullied hisses. Role model. Heartbreaker. Soldier. Beloved: Beautiful brown Buckeye, tell me the names of God.