Buried
By PATRICIA SMITH
There’s nothing but mud. The ground looks dry and firm,
but underneath is a stew of storm. Stout shovels, rusted,
grow gummed and heavy with what I heft and rearrange.
Progress is slow.
The sun so often steams me shut, and I have to stop
to gulp sugared bites of tea,
flick away sweat with my swollen fingers,
swat hard at sluggish flies who hover,
like they know.
And when I start again, there’s a rhythm to it,
some ticking jazz that gets my square hips involved.
I craft a chant purely for downbeat:
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss it.
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss it.
My untried muscles blaze,
joints click,
pulse clutches my chest.
Whole clocks later, I pause to relish the feat,
to marvel at the way I’ve compromised the earth,
how I’ve been that kind of God for a minute.
But only time has moved.
It’s like trying to reach the next world with a spoon.
My boy would have laughed.
Daddy, you better sit down and watch some ball game,
and we’d settle, Sunday lazy,
his squirm balanced on my belly.
He needed what I was and what I wasn’t.
Giggling in little language, he lobbed me the ball soft,
walked slower when I was at his side,
shared puffed white bread and purple jelly.
He waited patiently for me after dark
while I shuffled piles of books, looking for
a bedtime drama of spacemen or soldiers,
some crayoned splash to wrap his day around.
But every night, when I opened the door to his room,
all I saw
was a quivering mountain of Snoopys, Blues, and Scoobys.
Underneath them, his happy body could barely cage breath.
Giggles unleashed his toes. My line, then: Where are yoooou?
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss it.
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss—
With the dirt balanced high, screaming my shoulder,
I think hard on those nights of tussle and squeal.
I want to feel his heat and twist in my arms again.
I have to dig.
By PATRICIA SMITH
There’s nothing but mud. The ground looks dry and firm,
but underneath is a stew of storm. Stout shovels, rusted,
grow gummed and heavy with what I heft and rearrange.
Progress is slow.
The sun so often steams me shut, and I have to stop
to gulp sugared bites of tea,
flick away sweat with my swollen fingers,
swat hard at sluggish flies who hover,
like they know.
And when I start again, there’s a rhythm to it,
some ticking jazz that gets my square hips involved.
I craft a chant purely for downbeat:
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss it.
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss it.
My untried muscles blaze,
joints click,
pulse clutches my chest.
Whole clocks later, I pause to relish the feat,
to marvel at the way I’ve compromised the earth,
how I’ve been that kind of God for a minute.
But only time has moved.
It’s like trying to reach the next world with a spoon.
My boy would have laughed.
Daddy, you better sit down and watch some ball game,
and we’d settle, Sunday lazy,
his squirm balanced on my belly.
He needed what I was and what I wasn’t.
Giggling in little language, he lobbed me the ball soft,
walked slower when I was at his side,
shared puffed white bread and purple jelly.
He waited patiently for me after dark
while I shuffled piles of books, looking for
a bedtime drama of spacemen or soldiers,
some crayoned splash to wrap his day around.
But every night, when I opened the door to his room,
all I saw
was a quivering mountain of Snoopys, Blues, and Scoobys.
Underneath them, his happy body could barely cage breath.
Giggles unleashed his toes. My line, then: Where are yoooou?
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss it.
Plunge. Push. Lift. Toss—
With the dirt balanced high, screaming my shoulder,
I think hard on those nights of tussle and squeal.
I want to feel his heat and twist in my arms again.
I have to dig.
Happy black poetry day! If you haven't checked out Patricia Smith, I strongly recommend her writing, as well as the works of the (unrelated) poet Danez Smith.