De-naturalization

Now I am returning from a Black nation. I am pulling navy-bound freedom from a carry-on heartache. Customs officers imagine me—with my knowledge, my discontent, my audacity all folded, rolled tight and packed into shoes—as villain, and so I imagine this me, and so I myself become . . .

  I am holding every last pig   at gunpoint, hitting the blunt one   too many times before breaking   rotation, shattering Colt 45   bottles on the pavement of white   playgrounds, scratching my and Ike   Turner’s initials into the bark   of redwoods, cracking open   a lobster tail and wiping my hands   on the Grand Dragon’s hood.

An officer holds my piece of sovereignty and sees these hated Black selves coiled like mambas within my me, how I love being a rare brown smear, how I’d hate to be alone again. Somehow our interaction through his glassed-in kiosk warrants a revoking of my citizenship. He swipes a match into action. My blue binding set alight with fire. He saves my life.