At the Tribunals, and Violets

At the Tribunals

Once, in a brawl on Orchard, I clocked a kidwith a ridgehand so hard I could feel

his top teeth give. His knees buckledand my homeboy let loose a one-two

to finish the job. I turned aroundto block a sucker punch that didn’t come.

We ducked under the cops’ bright redhatchets that swung around the corner.

I never saw the first kid drop. He musthave been still falling when I dipped

from the scene and trotted towardDelancey. He was falling when I stopped

to check my leather for scuff marks.He was falling when I slipped inside

a dive to hide from a girl who got ghostfor books. He was falling when I kissed

the Santo Niño’s white feet and Melanie’sleft collarbone and the forehead

of a roughneck whose nose I was aboutto bust for nothing but squaring off

with me, his head snapped back to showhis neck’s smooth pelt. Look away

long enough and a boy can fall for weeks—decades—even as you get down

on one knee to pray the rottingkidneys in your mother’s gut

don’t turn too quick to stone.

I didn’t stick around to watchmy own work. I didn’t wait for

a single body to hit the pavement.In those days, it was always spring

and I was mostly made of knives.I rolled twenty-two deep, every

one of us lulled by a bladethough few of us knew the steel note

that chimed a full measure if you slidthe edge along a round to make it

keen. I’ll tell those stiffs in frocksto go ahead and count me among

the ones who made nothing goodwith his bare hands. I’ll confess,

I loved the wreckage: no matterthe country, no matter the machine.

Violets

A brisk sunset walk home: Lafayette Ave.After weeks straight of triple layersand double gloves, the day has inchedenough out of the freeze that I get aroundjust fine without my hands jammedin my pockets and my eyes half shutagainst the cold. I switchback real quickand yank a twig jutting out from a trash canjust for kicks. I get going again, swinging the stickas if I’m conducting this miserable choirof pigeons at my feet. A good block to go,I’m about to pick up the pace when I catcha small flash of dusk out the corner of my eye,not from the skyline but from the bit of branchI’m holding; a small flash of welts, a clusterof indigo—another violet’s just sproutedfrom my fist, which seems to happenin every season. Matter of fact, sometimesI look down the street and violets are spillingout the doors, down the stoops, into cornersand lots. They are pooling at every curband mothers hang their heads out the windowsin horror. I carry the violets one by oneinside my apartment. I head straight to my kitchenand lift the blossom to the light, roots and all,shaking dirt loose to take a good long lookat these squares of Jesus-purple. I hold itto my nose, say grace, and clamp my lips downto pop a petal free. I close my mouth around it,I pull it onto my tongue to feel its cool silkand push it against my teeth. I chewand chew some more and I say why not,for we live in the ongoing American epochin which a man can shoot a child in the eyeor the back and not be convicted of murder. Who’s got what magic now? Most daysI am one of the hundred million who simply watchesthe violets multiply. Then some nights,I sit in my kitchen eating this one perfect flower.Stupid, I know. But I’ve held things in my mouthwith more sugar and felt less blessed.If you want to...