Elegy

I remember the boys & their open hands. High fives
of farewell. I remember that the birches waved too,
the white jagged limbs turning away from incessant wildfires.

The future wavered, unlike a question, unlike
a hand or headstone. The future moved & the fields already knew it.

I remember the war of the alphabet, its ears sliced from its face. I
know that language asks for blood.

The children of kudzu, lilac, the spit of unknown rivers. I remember the jury
& the judge of the people. The buckshot that blew
the morning’s torso into smoke.

That last morning I begged the grandmothers to leave their rage next to red candles
& worn photographs of their children & their blue-eyed grandson
with his bleeding heart. The savior bled flowers.

I scattered the stones the trees bore. Gray vultures came for my children.
They knew the old country better than me. They broke through
skyscrapers & devoured both villain & hero.

& boys were pouring, wanted & unwanted & missing yet from the long mouth
where their voices were forced to say they were nothing. But they were men,
invisible
& native & guilty beyond their glottal doubt.

I remember calling out to the savage field where more boys knelt & swung
through the air. I remember how their eyes rolled back
in blood, milk, & gasoline. Their white teeth
chewing cotton into shrouds, scars & sheets.

They gave me their last words. They gave me smiles for their fathers.
They slept in my arms, dead & bruised. Long as brambles.

The bullets in their heads & groins
quieting like a day. The meat of nothing.

I held their million heads in my lap when the bodies were taken away.
I don’t know if what’s left will dance or burn.
I wash their eyelids with mint.
But let God beg pardon to them & their mothers

& I don’t know if the body is a pendulum of where love cannot go
when the tongue is swollen with the milk of black boys.
I pulled their lives from the trees & lawns & schools.
The unlit houses & the river. Their forewings wet
with clouds

& screaming. I won’t leave them,
huddled like bulls inside the stall of a word. I am the shriek,
the suture, the petal
shook loose from their silence.