Poem by Jawanza DumisaniSmoke Signals
Mother's eyes hold a century of secrets simmering in the baked sienna of her smile Her great-great grandmother catches carp and bluegill along the mouth of the Yazoo, calamity suspended on a lush Mississippi plain, by a fire in a Choctaw tent. Gramps dozes near a radiator hissing in the den. Relaxing in his rocker, he blows smoke rings from a Lucky Strike. Pauses___spits teeth into a wooden bowl on the table. Each pack is numbered Given two bits and the same wrinkled note, my eldest Al runs like a deer, fetching death from the corner twenty sticks a time. We puff our way toward manhood One shade north of shame, I wear the grooves thin from Say It Loud Unbridled by a masked man on a white horse Gramps reveals a red streak when Tonto fills the screen My youngest brother Eugene craves a white hat and six-shooter, Gramps conjures the unforgettable, mumbles in his sleep or springs up like a runaway on a forked road peppered with shadowy horses searing crosses, sockets glazed over as if poisoned by all the hung bodies of a hundred years Southern green with high-yellow pride, he sits at the front of a bus as if saved means knowing who violated his mother A dark woman blends into a tribe of warriors, worn feet dance wind songs against whips robbed of their sting First people of Chickasaw sit warlike counting arrows, joined by Koroa's cruel treachery. Bison graze nearby. Reaching out, I shake the hand of Chief White Eagle a tomahawk nestled in his palm. |
Jawanza Dumisani is the author of Black Raising Cane Over Red on Glover Lane Press & his most recent manuscript The Language Of Dying is due Spring 2017. He is a 2006 PEN Fellow and facilitates workshops for Beyond Baroque in Venice CA and The World Stage Art & Performance Gallery in Los Angeles CA. Jawanza is also the recipient of a World Stage Art & Performance Gallery scholarship where he studied with Suzanne Lummis.
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