Children of Assata Freestyle & Other Poems
Deshawn McKinney
Children of Assata Freestyle
whether or not she did i wonder
if we should.
//
an idea, in it an apple and tree, a child
biting the head off a serpent because they learned Haven
could never provide; too used to the stars
in supernova, the kind of Black holes
that caused it — on earth — too adapted,
that kevlar, you never loved us Black
//
parents who have lost plead for peace,
i wonder if there is another zeitgeist burrowed
within we keep missing, if when they remind us
change is incremental, not unlike the shrapnel
that gnawed at their child, just more sloth, just as quiet
after the bang, do g codes apply or is it time for loud memoriam?
//
angel wings, a child rummages through the box but none are their
size. they convince themselves Off White is the only divinity
//
America has never been quiet
offering advice on which weapons are safe
to oppose it, how a call for nonviolence can sound
the same frequencies as the heart flatlining
//
their Haven don’t make sense;
to a child snapbacks excite the senses
learns to crown themself alive
like all niggas do,
halfway
hanging
so it parts the sea but keeps
the waves
//
to the child it’s as simple as a halo collecting dust
in a court docket; few adults are brave enough to live forever
Let it run Ali
*This poem uses language from Kendrick Lamar’s “Backstreet Freestyle”
Henny n Hope
she looks like Misty Copeland dancin / off the Henny / wears all my rings, chrome faces / dancin with her / a duet / her body breaks out / of perfect lines, bends into free verse like the only poet she knows / hips read me to a trance / that her relevé pliés to dust / or glass reflections of ignorance or / then a missionary position that knows no Bible / nimbus pours blessings / when she dances me to a sabbath / desecration for which we repent. a Jesus / piece rests heavy on her neck but flutters / when she lifts I lift too, am more hers than mine / when she dances under the umbrella of my shirt / more us when she dances
we wear his and hers platinum
fangs, embed the crown jewels
and speak reparations
into existence
take a bow love.
lama sabachthani
I
a thing is not alive simply because
it has found ways to die less
V
i am boy, a rose maybe or at least good dollar store incense
fragrance on a cracked slab near the gas station,
i watch a man sprint from the walgreens he just robbed
and understand how some bellies runneth over
questioned about my vision i say i need glasses and the man goes
free: how else to look my brothers in the face?
i feel full
XVIII
jesus took the bread in pieces;
this is common sense:
how else to identify a body?
II
a bathroom mirror — Hail Mary pock marked — amen
as antihistamine
i am boy, a rose maybe, a something or someone with time
we sit and debate whether it reflects and what
i: in his image
mirror: in mine
agree we like best the idea that we have found
an early draft of Salvation in each blink
Black&running, except toward
how a star can catch a glimpse of itself
Black&dancing, all hips and hype
ungrateful were we not to display what momma gave
lost lust lovin the lore of
Black&ifyouholditlongenough
in the shadow of the valley there is abundance, we name it safe
we whisper (thought a sun-kissed thing would freeze in the dark) we shout
we name us Black, as a form of erasure, and feel seen
VIII
a thing is not alive simply
because
Deshawn McKinney is an American poet.
