Nikky Finney - 2011 National Book Award Winner

Co-Operation

... while reading Fenton Johnson

Co-operation

I had taken a lover for his morals and his strong family values

Apparently, he just wanted to dip into some danger.

He was one of those curious boys with a taste for The Other

and thought I could be his Saartjie Baartman or his Josephine Baker or some 80s-baby edition of his great grandpappy’s wet nurse.

He said to me one day that my cousin DayVauhn had taken his brother’s job.

I stared back at him blankly and asked him who had told his brother that blue eyes were worth more than a Master’s degree.

There was no calling of names

No dropping of N bombs

But the exchange was less than pleasant

so I had to introduce him to Cleopatra Jones or whatever bad ass Black bitch he thought he was getting some softer version of.

And that was the end of that.

A.Emme 2012

ink and mischief

removed.

"ink and mischief" has been published in the December 2012 issue of Yellow Bird Magazine

The Boy and the Artist

A short story. Written while listening to Iron & Wine

Like any artist without an art form, she became dangerous – Sula by Toni Morrison

Like any artist with no art form, she had become dangerous, a threat to both herself and to the others, and no one was safe. From her fiery gaze, they hid behind paper thin doors through which they could hear her crushing steps thumping through their village. Fearful of her booming voice, they cowered and shook so viciously that the coins in their pockets rattled together and made a sort of little song. Enticed, she danced a little dance, hopping from one foot to another, flailing her arms and lifting her skirt, exposing her ankles, thin and strong, her calves – all muscle and smooth skin. Her knees were discolored from rocks, concrete and hard wood floors. They were no stranger to the ground just as her face was no stranger to the heavens.

The others peeked out from behind their paper thin doors to see her dance and ceased their trembles to watch her spin - round, round, round - not sure if she was laughing or crying, until she hit the ground. And the world was never so serene as when she kneeled on the ground – face to the sky, palms following suit. But the wails that came next were too severe to bear. They screamed danger, and like any artist without an art form she was dangerous. A threat to herself and to the others.
They plugged their ears to block her cries and hummed from under covers to deflect those, her deepest woes. Always wet, ready to flow, it seemed that God had given her eyes so only she could cry. And cry she did. So long and hard that she began to shake with so much force that the ground began to quake until the others could not stand without holding on. They held tight to walls and chairs, anything that was theirs, for so long that their knuckles began to raw and they could only think that it must be love. For who but the broken hearted could cry that way. ‘Til the skies turned gray and made the waters stay, in still and salty rivers.
The waters started rising, from her thin and strong ankles to her calves, all muscle and smooth skin, then hit her knees, abused from years of wailing and then her thighs off of which the others could never keep their eyes. The soft fabric of her dress was caught in the wind and it was such a sight to see. A floating photo of her thighs, so smooth and soft, reflected on the waters that always seemed to stop right beneath them. Always right exactly there.
She was… wading in her own tears.

And fear overpowered their curiosity for all but one small boy with a pocket full of coins. They weighed him down as he made his way to her, quickly kicking his legs in the salty river and paddling his arms to stay afloat. He arrived at her side and he called to her in a small voice that could not compare to her wailing but he held out, treading in the still river of her tears until her steady cries became scattered yelps became silent sighs of exhaustion.
She quickly turned her head to see who was there and was met with the curious wide eyes of the boy with pockets heavy from coins. She reached out to him and as the others watched on from behind paper thin doors and through finger smudged windows, he reached, also, to her and did not tremble or fret when she pulled him out of the waters and placed him onto a floating by plank.

“Why are you crying?”
She was taken aback by such a question, a question she’d never been asked or had thought to ask herself. “Because God gave me eyes to cry.”

“And lips to smile,” he replied.
But when she had smiled, no one smiled back. Her tears, though, had made them watch and be mindful. Mindful of the way her strange and beautiful face would contort and her sweet gaping mouth would produce such heart quaking howling.            

The boy sized her up and she did him and as he steadied himself on the plank he began to walk back and forth, rubbing his dainty chin and as he stepped so heavy, his coins began to rub against each other, tumble over one another and clang and chime. As they did, her smile grew wide and her wounded knees began to sway back and forth - those knees that were no stranger to the ground and knew rocks, concrete and hard wood floors. Her feet whirled about the water, making tiny twisters and she threw up her gown and let it float back down over her thighs, off of which the others could never keep their eyes.

And there, in her still and salty river, she danced. Danced and danced. And the boy stomped his feet and made for her, music.

The others watched on and smiles and grins crept up onto their faces as joy welled up in their souls. Gathering on the banks of the river, they congregated, clapping and waving and dancing along, swaying. And they saw that she was a threat to neither herself nor the others but a joyful artist who had found her art form. 

Tired

TIRED

            A 21^st century response to Fenton Johnson’s 1918 poem.

I am tired of expectations; I am tired of holding up somebody else’s made up roles.

Let me relax for a moment

And then

I’m gonna walk up to the city, turn my face up to the marquee and drink in the idea of a memory of the world that is supposed to be mine.

I will shake off the responsibility to make the cotton fields mean something more

Then uncuff my own shackles of making up for lost time

For the women who birthed me

And the men who kept me fed

I just wanna be in the city sipping gin with Zora, laughing about Tea Cakes we loved and fear to love. Crying with Nella about passing for something we ain’t but don’t haveta be to be…

Throw the future in the Hudson, sink it down with the past.

It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are

colored

covered

molded

to be some stand in for a dream that was lynched on a sticky red poplar then            castrated and burned

Catch the shooting stars by their tails and connect the lines of the drinking gourd then follow it North until you are

no

longer

tired.

Resistance

Resistance

I was 12

With round framed glasses

Attempting to become my own version of Vanessa Huxtable

All straight A’s and one-liners.

I was sprawled out on the rug

My face in a book -

Goosebumps or Babysitters Club or something with a choose-your-own ending.

In the suburbs,

I’d never heard a gunshot

Never kept the oven door open for warmth.

And a bang on the door startled me

Even though we had a doorbell

(because why would they ring the bell if they could pound on the door)

They were

Looking for my brother

I remember smiling

Because not too long ago

It had been “people in your neighborhood day”

And I knew all about the good men in blue

Who would help me get home if I lost my mom at a street fair

Or could make sure men in vans didn’t follow me home from school

But they didn’t smile back

At 12 year old me

Or say please or thank you

When I said he wasn’t home

Even though I could hear WuTang blasting from his stereo

My first act of resistance

And as they made their way down the front steps

I swear I heard one oink

And saw the other’s pink spiraled tail twitch underneath his slacks.

A Poem for the White Boys

I am an owl

But you’re a day walker

My voice is familiar

But before you

I

Am

A marvel.

A rare bird

With eyes beyond understanding

And vision surpassing the scope of your own

My dark feathers camouflage me

But my hoot gives me away

Let your eyes adjust

And suddenly

There I am

Quiet and still

I

Intrigue

You

My scent creeps around the glass

            Between us

and calls to your insides

Your fun-sides

Your oh-i-want-to-touch sides

A little bit of new car,

sweet almond, and Mommy

Excitement, baked goods and some old familiar comfort

A newness, a freshness

A sweetness

A meekness

Its tickled your nostrils and you can’t turn away

I am your sweet songbird

Who sings like a lullaby

A chant. A prayer

Soothing, calming

Inspiring, uplifting

Soul stimulating

Mind titillating

Dream infiltrating

Strutting through your thought bubbles

Leaving footprints where there were none

Disturbing the sand

The waves just washed blank

With tracks that lead you in circles

But never back home

                                                -A. Emme

                                                       2011