The Sound of Butterflies
I have visions of a hammer swinging
into my face sideways through a car window
and though strapped in a seatbelt, there I go
there goes the first and last time Grandma said she loved me
a deep rasp on the phone
there go the blueberries I pushed up my brother’s nose
as if he knew at three how to blow them out
there goes my Jenga playdate with the shrink
in the glossy building like an elevator into heaven
there go baby teeth, the tooth fairy never came back once
after that first time
and now teeth tumble down my chest, clog my throat
there goes creeping late to watch the grown-folks dance
beers sparkling through their hands
there goes Mama, clang of sorcery in the kitchen
barbecue chicken and fried okra
there goes thunder at my cousins’ like a beast breaking out of a cellar
there go birds on power lines, birds who spoke my language
there go canned goods I helped store at the shelter
standing on a vanilla-colored stool to reach the counter
and there goes my nose, another whack, until it craters
there goes the bedsheet Mama used for a curtain to block the early sun
when we were sleeping on thin foam
there goes food the church congregation blessed us with
there go my belting melodies in the fan soon after a tail-whipping
there go those deep dial tones before our prank calls at the pay phone
there goes the snowball fight with my aunt when she broke her glasses
in the tail of winter when school cancelled
there goes my canoe that drifted in the lake too far
beyond where students were allowed to paddle, where the thrill was
another strike, my cheek bones become gravel
there goes my aunt again crooning out crying sounds while washing dishes
calling it soulful
there goes the hilly walk through the zoo where Mama had to sit on the bench
near the flamingoes
there goes my first S-Curl texturizer dripping down the kitchen sink from my roots
there go the chocolate chip cookies I baked with a whole cup of salt
there goes my stroke of the black and white keys after Fur Elise
and blood flows into a thousand tributaries across my face
there go the barbers paying me Christmas Eve for being the best shop sweeper in Norcross
there goes Six Flags, where I rode the Free Fall with Mama
the closest we ever sat since I was three
there goes A Song in the Front Yard, the Gwendolyn Brooks poem I ripped
out of a library book
there goes my business teacher saying show your intelligence
as if we had abandoned brilliance to fit in
there goes the pink baby shoe I found for a customer’s daughter
there goes my homie gulping down Panda Express, mumbling
you can’t live for free
this swing, now the head of the hammer hooks into my socket
there go the narrow dress shoes pimp-walked
over my high school graduation stage
there goes my first game of spades college homies taught me
there goes the rope that tied me up in the fireplace on stage
and paper-made ashes, playing a burglar
there goes my name in bold for Employee of the Month on McDonalds’ marquee
there go my footprints on Jimmy Carter’s peanut farm
there go the seagulls soaring near while I parasail
there go the stallions brown and black for miles and miles along Interstate-45
there go my voyages of return, home again like a tourist
there goes my hand I pray that is not on the handle of that hammer
and this swing, my screeching softens into the sounds of butterflies