In such eavesdropping voices are going to be
born in the city where stick figures distort
definition. Without you, phantom.
Thin shroud, obscure reflections,
plated with shine and stillnight,
with no last name. Between my whiskey
and ink clouds’ phosphorescence
collapsing, my lover calls me
a bad black man and I know the truth
in it. These images which arise from the depths
of childhood are not really memories. Just above
that scar, where I ran into my brother,
a crack in my crown. I have practiced denial.
A pornstar smiles for me. I nearly weep reminiscing
fireworks, lit at halfcourt. Sections have been
heavily edited. A lie by omission. I have delayed
gratification, drawn my own trembling peripheries,
my city. I have cowered in your embrace,
my love. Was that laughter at me?
I bite hairs in my palm when I am nervous.
I still turn the volume down to face myself.
Contributor Notes
Brian Francis is a Cave Canem fellow from New York City. He has a BA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Pittsburgh and an MFA in Poetry from NYU. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cortland Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Vinyl Poetry, No, Dear, Pittsburgh Poetry Review. He lives and teaches Middle School in Harlem.
