The Tradition

by Jericho Brown

That I still cannot impress the woman who whipped me Into being. I turned my mother into a grandmother. She thanks me By kissing my sons. 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.

They open in the day and close at night. They are good at appearances. They are white. I judge them, judge the study they make Of themselves, aspirational beings, fake If you ask me. If you ask me, I’ll say no, Thank you, I don’t need to watch what goes Only imagining itself seen, don’t need To see them yawn their thin mouths and feed

Three is a family. It is winter. They are bare. It’s not that I love them Every day. It’s that I love them anyway.

When a hurricane sends Winds far enough north To put our power out, We only think of winning The war bodies wage To prove the border Between them isn’t real.

I’d oblige because he hurt me With a violence I mistook for desire. I’d get left hanging In one room of his dim house while he swept or folded laundry. When you’ve been worked on for so long, you never know You’re done. Paint dries. Midnight is many colors. Black and blue Are only two. The man who tinted me best kept me looking a little Like a chore. How do you say prepared In French? How do you draw a man on the night shift? Security At the museum for the blind, he eats to stay Awake. He’s so full, he never has to eat again. And the moon goes.

The truck where I assume someone else must Scrub it—engine off—of the body’s evidence, And I sing, again, those songs because I know The value of sweet music when we need to pass The time without wondering what rots beneath our feet.