June 12, 2011
Dear Alexander Bradley Burns,
Dear Alexander,
Dear Alex,
Dear Bradley,
Dear Brad,
Hi, ABB,
Hey Al,
Dearest A,
From the second I saw your sepia photograph beneath convex glass above the door in the foyer of American Legion Post 80, I knew I’d have to write you.
I used to bury plum pits between houses. Buried
bits of wire there too. Used to bury matches
but nothing ever burned and nothing ever thrived
so I set fire to a mattress, disassembled a stereo,
attacked flies with a water pistol, and drowned ants
in perfume. I pierced my eyebrow, inserted
a stainless steel bar, traded that for a scar in a melee, pressed
tongue to nipple in a well-lit parking lot, swerved
into traffic while unbuttoning my shirt—
There is a woman
waiting for me to marry her or forget her name
forever—whichever loosens the ribbons from her hair.
I fill the bathtub for an enemy, lick the earlobe
of my nemesis. I try to dance like firelight
without setting anyone ablaze. I am leaning over
the railing of a bridge, seeing my face shimmer
on the river below—it’s everywhere now—
Look for me
in scattered windshield beneath an overpass,
on the sculpture of a man with metal skin grafts,
in patterns on mud-draggled wood, feathers
circling leaves in rainwater—look. Even the blade
of a knife holds my quickly fading likeness
while I run out of ways to say I am here.
This poem appeared in Indiana Review 32.2, Winter 2010.
*
Jamaal May is the author of Hum (Alice James Books, 2013) and The Big Book of Exit Strategies (Alice James Books, 2016). Hum received several honors including a Lannan Foundation grant and American Library Association’s Notable Book Award. Other honors include a Spirit of Detroit Award, the Wood Prize from POETRY, and a fellowship from the Civitella Ranieri Foundation in Italy. Jamaal’s poetry explores the spaces between opposites to render a sonically rich argument for the interconnectivity of people as well as the worlds they inhabit. From Hamtramck and Detroit he co-directs Organic Weapon Arts with Tarfia Faizullah.
Outside Amman. One taxi ride to Salt, an old town with little for tourists. Small shops and imported snacks and ten-cent packs of “Arabic gum.” There was a man hanging from the open door of a village bus who had us all get in. And in we went: packed with strangers who found us stranger, a man who gave his seat up for me, thinking I was a woman. I sat down all the same, my hair long past my shoulders, my narrow legs crossed tightly at the knee: soon everyone was staring. We were all so beautiful, I told myself, they had to stare.
They let us off at the top of the small mountain. The street was ending. More shops. Everyone was drinking Pepsi. What should we do now, we all wondered, though no one asked. It was beginning to rain. I pulled up the hood on my teal sweater and started walking. Everyone followed. Read more…
Nothing is more depressing than going in the hot tub alone. So I go when there’s people there! I make friends!
“Today at work I sold two fashion tumblers,” I say stepping into the bubbling water. Nobody here knows me so naturally they don’t respond. I used to be like that, afraid of something new. But not anymore.
There’s a man and a woman this time, sitting close. They lean into each other like doves. And another man across from them, smiling at them, smiling at me. Read more…
To guarantee safety, go back inside & count
to noon. To make honey by honest trees,
press for time. Either way, all numbers are hellhound
as well as holy, but what did you expect?
A little divine torture has always been
the way in, and waiting for daylight
robbery won’t leave you deadly. Or, take my
word away and light up the teeth in the tumbler
all at once, like the locked door is a yawning
god and you the very last Alleluia—
at once, as if your heart shredded its school
-skirt and shotgunned over the yard for home.
