Before I could make more
white friends the one
I did have came over
after school to watch
Yo! MTV Raps and I went
into the basement only
to emerge later with my
father’s shotgun
and of course he went
even more white
because this was supposed
to be a joke, the type of shit
thickheaded boys laugh
at until their sides contract
into spasms.
I mean, I laughed
even though I knew it wasn’t
that funny, even when I had
checked the gun for its emptiness
three times over,
I knew he probably
wouldn’t laugh but I was
committed to being the good
son who remembered
my mother collapsing
into a stove after work
and then a couch and then
work again and again
my father retreating below
the house
and sometimes wouldn’t
come up for anything,
even if it was something
he could tear apart
with his teeth. The men at
his job would whittle him
down into a cross until
he believed in it, stringing it
around his own neck,
and when I say
men, I mean white men
because what other kind
is there? And yes, I know watching
my friend spread himself
in fear is a lot to ask of him, hard
to claim mercy for supplying him
with a parachute
if I’m the one pushing
him out of a plane.
I don’t say
that to say he was a jerk
to me or that he deserved
it—it means his parents
got him a Starter jacket
for every team he liked
and I never felt right about
not refusing the one
he handed me down,
the one my father said cost
too much and maybe
he wasn’t talking about
the jacket anyway.
My friend’s parents
accidentally
bought him two of the same,
but the gun, he said that wasn’t
cool and he was right
and I could never really
figure out why I aimed a hollow
threat at my friend except
to say that I probably gave him
something I know so well.
It rubs my back
during slumber,
but his parents
never could afford.