by Kwoya Fagin Maples
seeing you see me
-after RaMell Ross
as if we are here meeting eye to eye, consider
not assessing as I am infinite beads
past your abacus and you cannot know
——-this road or the soft business of my hands
or how the trees study sheltering
& know joy is not merely transcendence
cause I don’t think about european-americans
—-at any variation of Cookout
where the bass opens for Betty Wright to sing a song
even her own Mama told her not to sing
(on account of how free it is)
as if we could never be eye to eye, you keep watching
——–while you look like you smell like outside
————–you look like you been throwed away
————–you look just like a tinderbox dog with eyes big as saucers
not to mention, your head’s so big it almost eclipsed my picture
what I’m trying to say is, I let my music breathe air, free to wander
——-while yours breathes like a slow-dying bass
this joy, like a yellow brighter than sun
I hope you get something like it (some off-brand loop fruit not quite the same)
the light basks in my hair and cannot be known
—–like the truth that my boot size is
a number, the ground is damp enough to mark my tracks,
——the road is clear
and you should really worry about where I’m going
