Past-life portrait

Past-life portrait

machete, circa 1791

my widest mouth hungriest in morning breakfast a staccato thwack clacking stalks of canesugar my smiling blade but teeth sharpeningthemselves against the sweet dull thud of routinerusty renegades of serrated jag thirstyonder fields set ablaze in rebellion—smokeblackening sky beckoning a thousand mouthslike me, but alas, i remain—in boredomi scalp dandelions, split plantains in twowhack my way through gorgeous ripe watermelonbut neither its flesh nor juice seduces me—when the hands come to handle me clumsilyi flail toward lower ground threatening toesdusty teeth lusting not for sound but blood

Past-life portrait

whip, circa 1793

elongated tongue—calfskin tanned tautlifeless muscle becomes momentumthe moment the hand speaks   seekingflesh     a succession of licksa streak   dizzying crisscrossthe back sings of bloodrecoil and delicious stingringing out a warning across fieldsno one feared the cow raped of her milkslaughtered   hides weathered into leatherwhile the natives feasted on steak but at leastthis second life, this freedomall feeling   even at the hands of others—    a glory of sorts

Past-life portrait

circa 1787, Negroes’ Burying Ground, Lower Manhattan

The resurrectionistssmell unsettled ground—a sun-wilted lily’ssweet reek

a newly nailed pine boxsticky with shellacmoldy funk of a borrowedblack suit, the perfumed

pomatum—the bodyunearthed   undresseda fresh wound embalmeda son, wilted lilies—

        What lies inside        a nigger?

        Are the lungs birdcages        filled with feathers?

        Are the bones magic        wands of calcium        and rhythm?

        Can the blood’s iron        smith a hammerhead?

        Is the throat        lined with gold?