harlem summer :: ishion hutchinson

for Dante Micheaux

No bitterness comes out of thin slices
of lemon loaf you cut at the kitchen
window as I watch from the sofa, thinking:
‘the light catches and frames perfect
each object: bread, knife, and Dante.’
August bends on the stoop, paying another
visit to my years, my fourth summer in New York.
I haven’t learnt the metropolitan tongue,
too provincial, I watch the hurtling line
of crumbs increase under the blade.
At home, some sea is ruining the reef.
At peace with this caress; no one
quarrels but the net that heaves back nothing
this finical year, the lone shark tears through
the haze like a jagged-edge train and brings me
to this hiatus, desolate and vexed;
same with Naso before your namesake, cast
away to another land—this is America, though;
trust the billboard’s promise, the offer of bread
from the mount of a stool, your Sinai.
My fate is stainless as the knife that parted
a friend’s wrist years ago, indigoed the clear
sand tourists visit to watch the sun vanish
into the bay, a metallic reoccurring soap opera
children leap slow to into the sun-rusted water.
The spill of yellow on the granite counter
is the sand of home minimized to amnesia,
friends dwindling like accounts, accounted
for in fragments, mentioned and forgotten
to the continent’s widening grasp.
America’s promise does not extend to Harlem.
The Renaissance blows like garbage in the street,
acid-eyed addicts stare through me, puzzled
at how still I stand in the vomit of people
coming from underground, blinking out light.
I don’t know how they escape Charon
and why they go back in the dozens,
to be unloaded on the moving blocks,
avenues that advertise panaceas
for their dark blues, their anxiety and hunger.
An ant takes a crumb on its black back.
Once more Sisyphus strains across the sink
to my sea, all our seas, but the single sea
of my point of view before knowing this world,
or you, salt flitting my eyes, admiring
the smile in the blade, the last yellow
piece to leave your hand. A riddling absence
fills me and the turn of the faucet brings
the flood, crumbs brushed into the gurgling hole,
pulling down from the window the summer light.

moved by the beauty of trees :: ishion hutchinson

The beauty of the trees stills her;
she is stillness staring at the leaves,

still and green and keeping up the sky;
their beauty stills her and she is quiet

in her stare, her eyes’ long lashes curve
and keep, her little mouth opens

and keeps still with its quiet for the beauty
of the trees, their leaves, the sky

and its blue quiet, very still and quiet;
her looking eyes wide, deep, silent

hard on the trees and the beauty
of the sky, the green of the leaves.