1
She was,
might have been a boy,
perhaps a minder of clocks
with fixed hours
and twisted broken hands.
2
She might have been a boy
but was Carson nevertheless,
and her mama declared,
in dulcet undertones,
that her daughter would be a genius
someday, in some place north of mercy,
and she placed the baby's fingers,
delicate on ivory keys, tuned
into love, substantial as igneous rock
exposed to blueblackgray skies.
She was consonant with vowels
that sang on chain gangs,
rank with sweat
when dust was thick
and preachers cottoned to
women walking barefoot
down Cheehaw Steet,
women who stretched out
palms waiting to be read.
She was trying to say
how she was before she knew
the answers to renditions
that left her dry and wanting,
left her like a phrase of music
silent, silent in the heat of the heart.
Posted by SBW on May 15, 2008
Tags: Uncategorized
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