Jericho Brown

Romans 12:1

I will begin with the body,

In the year of our Lord,

Porous and wet, love-wracked

And willing: in my 23rd year,

A certain obsession overtook

My body, or I should say,

I let a man touch me until I bled,

Until my blood met his hunger

And so was changed, was given

A new name

As is the practice among my people

Who are several and whole, holy

And acceptable.

Cain

First, a conversation. Now,

A volcano. Call me quick-

Tempered vegan. Turnip

Lover. Fruit licker. Mound

Maker. Quiet. I can predict

An earthquake. I can cook

A rose. I’m first to kill

A weed.

My job

Is to look at the childhood I hated and say

I once had something to do with my hands.

I called them

Old, and they must have been; they’re all dead

Now, dead and in the earth I once tended.

The loneliest people have the earth to love

And not one friend their own age

Show me

A man who tells his children

The police will protect them

And I’ll show you the son of a man

Who taught his children where

To dig. Not me. Couldn’t be. Not

On my knees. No citizen begs

To find anything other than forgiveness.

We talk about God

Because we want to speak

In metaphors.

And my mother’s sobs

Are the songs of Bessie Smith

Who wears more feathers than

Death.

Let me lie down. Let my words

Lie sound in the mouths of men

Repeating invocations pure

And perfect as a moan

That mounts in the mouth of Bessie Smith.

I knew I had jet lag because no one would make love to me.

All the men thought me a vampire. All the women were

Women.

Don’t be afraid.

It’s 1979 or so. I’m known

To lie about my age. My parents

Are trying again. How’s that

For language, the moans

They made making me. If only

One of them lasted longer,

If they preferred the dog to some

Other position, then maybe I’d be

The same on both sides or

A babyface the rest of my life.