
Black As…
Dad is black
Black as tar
And then some more
He’s not a slave
But who can tell for sure
Cause he’s black
Sometimes blacker
Than a moonless night
Dad is black
Black as tar
And then some more
He’s not a slave
But who can tell for sure
Cause he’s black
Sometimes blacker
Than a moonless night
“That’s seven. And eight,” I said. “Two in a row!” “The next stop is a few miles,” my father said. I was no longer a child, but I felt like one on that drive.
Alive again, I knew I wanted to begin with touch, my body’s torso, stroke without terror, as I walk towards his gramophone, to the wall hanging, Nina Simone singing at the background, of a place called “more”, and this time I didn’t have to swim.
In the stranger’s basement bedroom, I awoke, facing a staircase that had pale blue lights