The Tradition

by Jericho Brown

That’s the version I prefer. I like The safety of it, no one at fault, Everyone rewarded.

I mean, don’t you want God To want you? Don’t you dream Of someone with wings taking you Up?

In Heaven, that far terrain Between Promise and Apology.

There is the happiness you have And the happiness you deserve. They sit apart from each other

Where she will settle next to him Forever, as promised.

No matter how sore the injury. No matter how sore the injury Has left you, you sit understanding Yourself as a human being finally Free now that nobody’s got to love you.

My God, we leave things green.

I promise if you hear Of me dead anywhere near A cop, then that cop killed me.

Light rain hits easy but leaves its own mark Like the sound of a mother weeping again.

I am writing to you from the other side Of my body where I have never been Shot and no one’s ever cut me. I had to go back this far in order To present myself as a whole being You’d heed and believe in.

So they know I’ve missed them More than anyone else.

I pride myself On my gifts. I can fashion for you A place to play, and when you think It’s dark there, I hand you Fruit like two swollen bulbs Of light you can hold on to, Watch your eyes brighten as you eat.

When I am touched, brushed, and measured, I think of myself As a painting. The artist works no matter the lack of sleep. I am made Beautiful. I never eat. I once bothered with a man who called me Snack, Midnight Snack to be exact. I’d oblige because he hurt me With a violence I mistook for desire.

When you’ve been worked on for so long, you never know You’re done. Paint dries. Midnight is many colors.

That when I wake to brush you from my own Teeth I see you in the mirror.

Was I ever there?

I begin with love, hoping to end there. I don’t want to leave a messy corpse. I don’t want to leave a messy corpse Full of medicines that turn in the sun.

Some of us don’t need hell to be good.

What are the symptoms of your sickness? Here is one symptom of my sickness: Men who love me are men who miss me. Men who leave me are men who miss me

Each wounds you badly, but no boy hurts Like the first one

A man goes to heaven, you suffocate below the weight.

All my anxiety is separation anxiety. I want to believe you are here with me, But the bed is bigger and the trash Overflows. Someone righteous should Take out my garbage. I am so many odd And enviable things. Righteous is not One of them.

Now I worry No one will ever love me—

I am reminded of all I’ve gotten Rid of. And every living Thing that still must go.

What I love Understands itself As properly scarce.

I wanted what anyone With an ear wants— To be touched and Touched by a presence That has no hands.

We’d make love on trains and in dressing rooms. Love in the subway, love in mall restrooms. A bore at home, he transformed in the city.