The Golden Shovel
after Gwendolyn Brooks
I. 1981
When I am so small Da’s sock covers my arm, we
cruise at twilight until we find the place the real
men lean, bloodshot and translucent with cool.
His smile is a gold-plated incantation as we
drift by women on bar stools, with nothing left
in them but approachlessness. This is a school
I do not know yet. But the cue sticks mean we
are rubbed by light, smooth as wood, the lurk
of smoke thinned to song. We won’t be out late.
Standing in the middle of the street last night we
watched the moonlit lawns and a neighbor strike
his son in the face. A shadow knocked straight
Da promised to leave me everything: the shovel we
used to bury the dog, the words he loved to sing
his rusted pistol, his squeaky Bible, his sin.
The boy’s sneakers were light on the road. We
watched him run to us looking wounded and thin.
He’d been caught lying or drinking his father’s gin.
He’d been defending his ma, trying to be a man. We
stood in the road, and my father talked about jazz,
how sometimes a tune is born of outrage. By June
the boy would be locked upstate. That night we
got down on our knees in my room. If I should die
before I wake. Da said to me, it will be too soon.
II. 1991
Into the tented city we go, we
akened by the fire’s ethereal
afterglow. Born lost and cool
er than heartache. What we
know is what we know. The left
hand severed and school
ed by cleverness. A plate of we
ekdays cooking. The hour lurk
ing in the afterglow. A late
night chant. Into the city we
go. Close your eyes and strike
a blow. Light can be straight
ened by its shadow. What we
break is what we hold. A sing
ular blue note. An outcry sin
ged exiting the throat. We
push until we thin, thin
king we won’t creep back again.
While God licks his kin, we
sing until our blood is jazz,
we swing from June to June.
We sweat to keep from we
eping. Groomed on a die
t of hunger, we end too soon.
