The Tradition

by Jericho Brown

Gratitude is black— Black as a hero returning from war to a country that banked on his death. Thank God. It can’t get much darker than that.

I’ll never know who started the lie that we are lazy, But I’d love to wake that bastard up At foreday in the morning, toss him in a truck, and drive him under God Past every bus stop in America to see all those black folk Waiting to go work for whatever they want. A house? A boy To keep the lawn cut? Some color in the yard? My God, we leave things green.

Foreday in the Morning

None of the beaten end up how we began. A poem is a gesture toward home.

Duplex

Candles are Romantic because We understand shadows. We recognize the shape Of what once made us Come, so we come Thinking of approach In ways that forgo Substance.

The Legend of Big and Fine Long ago, we used two words For the worth of a house, a car, A woman—all the same to men Who claimed them: things To be entered, each to suffer Wear and tear with time, but Greater than the love for these Was the strong little grin One man offered another Saying, You lucky. You got you A big, fine ______________. Hard to imagine so many men Waiting on each other to be Recognized, every crooked Tooth in our naming mouths Ready like the syllables Of a very short sentence, all Of us crying mine, like babies who Grab for what must be beautiful Since someone else saw it.

Hetero cisgendered men

When you see me coming You see me running When you see me running You run too

Entertainment Industry

Monotheism Some people need religion. Me? I’ve got my long black hair. I twist The roots and braid it tight. You’re My villain. You’re a hard father, from Behind, it whines, tied and tucked, Untouchable. Then comes The night— Before I carry my Mane to bed with me, I sit us In front of the vanity. Undo. Un- wind. Finally your fingers, it says Near my ear, Your fingers. Your Whole hands. No one’s but yours.

Monotheism

Token

Living in small towns as an outsider

What’s yours at home is a wolf in my city. You can’t accuse me of sleeping with a man.

Duplex

Duplex: Cento My last love drove a burgundy car, Color of a rash, a symptom of sickness. We were the symptoms, the road our sickness: None of our fights ended where they began. None of the beaten end where they begin. Any man in love can cause a messy corpse, But I didn’t want to leave a messy corpse Obliterated in some lilied field, Stench obliterating lilies of the field, The murderer, young and unreasonable. He was so young, so unreasonable, Steadfast and awful, tall as my father. Steadfast and awful, my tall father Was my first love. He drove a burgundy car.