Street Love (6 page)

Damien, I am lost

Did you hear her, how could she keep talking through

That fixed smile, that frozen face

The narrow head that kept turning away from me

Why doesn’t she give me a chance?

Look, now we are walking down the same street

We took coming here. Time has passed, people have

Been born and some have died

But everything is the same. The sunlight haze

Sweeps across the concrete

Framing the rhythms of souls lost in their

Own lives, but for me nothing

Has changed.

She has given you a date. Something about twelve days

An execution date. Everything will be over then

Will be determined.

When my mother came out of her

Mother’s womb, Black and skinny, and screeching

When the doctor who delivered her skipped

The box naming a father

When the gypsy cab came and picked them

Up to make the drive to Alphabet City

When the smell of reefer rose sweet

And pungent through the gray project walls

When my grandmother called her friend to come

To see the new baby and no one was home

Everything was already determined

The steps are there, we just have to follow

Them to whatever doom there is

I have to think, he said

There is nothing to think about, Damien

What logic stands against logic?

I want to raise my sister and break the

Chains that bind us even though I know

Those chains cannot be broken

What logic sets that right except the rightness

Of denial? How will I discover how to

Defy gravity? How to fly over truths?

I have no money and without money there

Will be no way of living. What can you

Think of that will deny this? Do you think for

One moment that I want what is best for

Me? For Melissa? Reason spits in my face

With its sassy presence. I don’t have a

Better reason than the book Miss Davis held

Before her small bosom like a hand-me-down Bible.

I am too real not to know that real will kill me

I am too street not to know what the streets hold for me

Let me think

Thinking is all I have

If wisdom is a pretense

Then let me pretend to be wise

Go. Think. Turn black into white.

Night into day. I am tired of thinking.

I know where it will lead me and I don’t

Want to be there.

Go love. Do your thinking.

Junice turns and walks away

Through the familiar shifting rhythm

Of a Harlem crowd

I have never felt so alone

Cogito ergo sum; I think, therefore I am

Dead thoughts in a dead language

What good is thinking? What good is I am

If I am is not something larger

Than I could ever be alone?

The thinking, the furrowed brow

Had always been, until this time

A comfort.

To this very moment every

Red horizon produced a new day

Every cloud its cleansing shower

The sun never stopped its

Brilliant arcing across my blue skies

What strange land have I entered

Where tsunami questions roar and crush the soul

And the gravity of the blood moon pulls no

Answers from the brooding tide?

What is there to think about

To weigh carefully

That Junice and Melissa enter

Some benign level of Hell

And what if Hell is not so Hellish As it won’t be once I put it

Beyond my sight, into the cool

Regions of intellect. If Hell

Is not so Hellish once out of

My mind, what will life be,

When I am out of Junice?

Comfortable? Without a doubt.

Carefully planned? To the last letter.

Life will resume, the too-familiar

Curtain rises once again, but

I’ve forgotten all my lines.

More important than what happens

To me, for the first time

In my life more important than

What happens to me, is what will happen

To Junice?

Can I shut my eyes, seal my ears

Not know what she stutters through

Her tears

That every distance

From love is too far? That every

Battering of the heart is impossible

To heal, and that a lifetime

Of shielding the wounds

Is too high a price to pay?

Junice has laid down her dreams

For the world to see

While I still clutch mine to my bosom

And whine my prayers to a God

Who wants more

Of me than I can bring to Heaven’s door.

Yo, ballplayer, where you been hiding?

They put up two neon signs downtown and

Neither one of them spells out your name

You skipping the race or setting the pace

On up to the Big Time and putting

Down the little folks?

What, you ain’t speaking?

I saw you with Junice, bro.

You liking that tall mama?

Liking? You’re not deep enough to understand

Anything deeper, so I’ll say I’m liking her

Yo, if you’re talking about love

You must be slipping or tripping

Skirts are made for lifting

Not gifting with no emotion

Or are you Doing the Right Thing

Getting on the Bus and all that

Zing-zing kind of fling White dudes

Be talking about?

Hey, I’m in love, Sledge,

But I don’t expect you to dig it

They don’t keep love in the sewers

You hang in

Yo, Damien, I know her situation

She’s just part of the booty nation

She’ll be out here tricking

When the rent is due. Or don’t you get the clue

When you see that her mama

Resides with the Upstate Brides?

Sledge, you are just another turd

Who hasn’t heard the word that the

Flushing is done. Take your stink

Someplace else, man. I don’t have

The time for your mental grime.

What could you know about love?

Yeah, you in love. And with your higher

Brain you got her higher parts

While I had to settle for those holding

Me close and whispering my name

Over and over.

Watch your mouth, fool!

If you feel froggy, come jump in my direction

If you feel like a soldier, march on over

If you needy, come get some of what I’m

Handing out by the fistful

Then there are two stallions

Standing toe to toe

One’s breath warming the face of the other

Sliding past the emotional pains they

Can’t express to the physical pains they

Can.

Then they fight. Fists fly, legs spread

Damien’s fury forcing Sledge to back up

As he wards off the blows. Sledge goes

For the groin. The two roll on the

Cracked cement as children watch, never

Putting down their sodas, their bags of chips

It is just the everyday violence of a

Ghetto afternoon. Suicide bombers expressing

I-amness.

Damien pounds away. Basketball muscles

Are quick, his hands are even quicker, but

Sledge goes into his sock and pulls his shank.

Its arc is quick and the spurt of

Blood is a thin red bird in the slanted

Light of late afternoon

Suddenly the two warriors are apart, standing

Sledge, his breath coming in deep gasps,

His eyes bloodshot and wide, stumbles away from

The kneeling Damien.

“He’s cut!” a child calls out.

“It ain’t deep,” is the knowing reply.

Damien feels the wound that has made a thin

Line along his jaw. The child observer was right

It wasn’t deep. A trickle of blood

Runs down the neck and into the collar

Of his open shirt.

“Excuse me, young man, I see you are on

Your knees,” a homeless man interrupts. “If

You’re finished praying perhaps you could

Give an old man a dollar or two for a sandwich.”

Damien’s glance is angry. The homeless man

Amused. The children move to the jungle gym

Only Damien feels abused.

Damien stands for a while on the corner. Across the

Street two policeman sit in a squad

Car and look in his direction. If he had been

Hurt seriously they would have come over

Would have done whatever necessary for the

Greater good of the community. He starts down the

Hill, not planning to go but going

Not knowing what he wants to know

But knowing, looking and not looking

Until he reaches her block.

When she appears, head down

Groceries hugged against her chest

He calls her name and she stops, half in her

Doorway, her keys still pointed away from

The street, almost spilling the onions.

What happened? She asked. You’re a mess.

Do you know Sledge? He asked.

He exists, She said. But you’ve been hurt, come upstairs

I’ll wash your face. What happened?

I just fought Sledge, and lost, He said.

Why?

He said he had made love to you.

I needed to shut his lying mouth.

To put the lie to his lay.

I knew you would never go with him.

He pulled a knife. But that doesn’t matter now.

What matters now?

All I need is to hear the words from your lips to move on,

To stumble past his profanity.

Just tell me you are who I know you are.

What are you saying?

What words do you want from my lips? Words

That say that Sledge has not touched me? That I

Am pure? Unused? Excused? Unabused? Unconfused?

Is that how you are defining me? What is it that you want?

Some girl of your dreams with fairy-tale themes

Spouting from her lips? I am not the virgin version of your

Life, Damien. I am only what you see, this stick

Of a woman trying to make enough magic

To negotiate the shadows of these streets. You want

To name me according to my abuser, when I am only

Me. I can’t use it. My life is not packaged,

Not tidy. There are leftover strands and jagged

Edges that cut even my friends. Blame Sledge if you must

Or God if you still trust in Heaven

Damien, I believed in you because I

Want to believe in the love I feel for

You. If that’s not enough

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Damien walks away,

There is a stinging pain in his face

There is even more hurt within

The tall body, suddenly

Doubt-weakened, unsure, pushing

One foot before the other, an alien

Pushing through the underbrush

Of his own planet.

At home he finds his room

The four corners of his bed, his quilt

And under the quilt, his darkness

But in the landscape of his once-friendly

Mind there are only strangers

Coming at him with visions

That distort his world

Here are the Sledges hate-hating their way

Through life, mocking tenderness with their

Leering grins.

Here are the Regulators, who check their

Passions at the time clock, tsk-tsking their

Way to Pensionville.

Here is the Artist, snip-snipping from

His own memory (call it history)

Making his own portrait of her.

The night carried a thousand dreams

One moment the violence of his fight

With Sledge had him ripping at the covers

The next found him still and trembling inside

The coolness of the sheets, listening to the

Echoes of Junice’s words as she walked

Away from him…away from him.

Damien, I spoke to Kevin’s mother

(Toast and tea on a tray)

He told her/she told me

You’re in love with a girl

Is she a nice girl? Kevin’s mother said/he said

Jail/drugs/mother/said/sister, too

I know you won’t like her, I thought

Who knows what is right/wrong/good/bad

These days? Did you want eggs?

She is on the verge of bubbling over

Restless in the invisible cage she paces

As if it were a frame and she the vision

It encases. The voice rises in pitch.

We all must choose/pay dues/even though

Choice is not always easy/queasy/feelings

But nevertheless/I confess/the biggest mess is when we

Let our emotions/notions/devotions to causes

Change us/rearrange our lives in strange ways

Her hands move nervously, spilling

The tea onto the paper napkin

You have a station in life, education, the dedication

Of your father and me, you do know how much

We care, we have dared to care all these years

You can’t just turn/spurn/burn your bridges

I missed your basketball practices?

Have you started your season yet?

Her name is Junice, I said.

She is Black, but comely

She brings me to places I haven’t been

Before, other sides of far horizons

She is an unfortunate girl

She swallows rainbows

And when I put my head against her

Breasts, I hear music

Infatuation is a situation that maturation

Shows us must fail in the long run/bright sun

Of hard truth, Damien

You owe us the fruits of our sacrifices

Our turning away from worldly vices

To give you all the advantages and advice

That would carry you beyond beyond

It would be a terrible thing for you to

Surrender your life for some girl that I

Hate and I do hate her if she is going to

Ruin your life and after all you are my

Son and that has meaning. You have a life

And you just can’t leave it. You just

Can’t leave it lying in some gutter or some

Cheap hotel room with some girl who is no

Mystery, Damien, she is no mystery! The way those

People live. It’s just the opposite of how we

Live. Her mother’s life is just evil! Is that

What you want? Look at her history!

The screaming goes on

Goes on,

I shut out her voice, her words

But can’t escape

Their awful weight

He spoke to himself

Listened to his heart

Mumbled through the tears

Yes, she is the fruit that will

Sustain me and yes, she brings

A rain that I know can chill

But it is a rain so sweet and sings

A song my soul insists

That I follow, if I would exist

As more than I have ever, ever been

If my mother calls it evil, then I embrace the sin

Damien turned away to find a place within

Himself to hide, knowing that hiding was no

Answer. His mother, a woman betrayed,

Locked in the prison of her frustration,

Continued through the night

His father joined the chorus

As they sang songs of

Well-Meaning/Parental/Hallelujahs

All-Encompassing Wisdom

With an occasional blues riff

To show that they were

With It

Sleep, hard coming, dream-filled

Gnawed at the night

The too-hot autumn smothered him

With self-doubt as what he knew

Tortured all he felt