Neon Vernacular. Yusef Komunyakaa
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when they darkened
The field at halftime
& a hundred freejack girls
Marched with red & green penlights
Fastened to their white boots
As the brass band played
“It Don’t Mean A Thing.”
They stepped so high.
The air tasted like jasmine.
We’d shower & rub
Ben-Gay into our muscles
Till the charley horses
Left. Girls would wait
Among the lustrous furniture
Of shadows, ready to
Sip white port & lemon juice.
Music from the school dance
Pulsed through our bodies
As we leaned against the brick wall:
Ernie K-Doe, Frogman
Henry, The Dixie Cups, & Little Richard.
Like echo chambers,
We’d du-wop song after song
& hold the girls in rough arms,
Not knowing they didn’t want to be
Embraced with the strength
We used against fullbacks
& tight ends on the fifty.
Sometimes they rub against us,
Preludes to failed flesh,
Trying to kiss defeat
From our eyes. The fire
Wouldn’t catch. We tried
To dodge the harvest moon
That grew red through trees,
In our Central High gold-
&-blue jackets, with perfect
Cleat marks on the skin.
10 The Woman Who Loved Yellow
Mud puppies at Grand Isle,
English on cue balls, the war
Somewhere in Southeast Asia—
That’s what we talked about
For hours. She wore a yellow blouse
& skin-tight hiphuggers,
& would read my palm
At the kitchen table: Your lifeline
Goes from here to here. Someday you’ll fall
In love & swear you’ve been hoodooed.
Mama Mary would look at us
Out of the corner of an eye,
Or frame our faces in a pot lid
She polished over & over. After she crossed
The road, I’d throw a baseball
Till my arms grew sore,
Floating toward flirtatious silhouettes.
A few days home, her truck-driver
Husband would blast a tree of mockingbirds
With his shotgun, & then take off
For Motor City or Eldorado.
She’d stand at our back door
Like a dress falling open. Sometimes
We’d go fishing at the millpond;
I kept away the snakes.
We baited hooks with crickets.
A forked willow branch
Held two bamboo poles
As we unhooked the sky. Breasts
& earlobes, every fingerprinted
Curve. When we rose, goldenrod
Left our tangled outline on the grass.
Birds on a Powerline
Mama Mary’s counting them
Again. Eleven black. A single
Red one like a drop of blood
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