for Louis Brown, Boston
I blew out my speakers today listening to Aretha
sing gospel. “Take My Hand, Precious Lord”
crackled and popped until finally the tweeters
smoked and the room grew silent, although,
as my mama would say, The spirit kept kickin’.
Humming fitfully between sips of spiced tea,
I decided that salvation didn’t need a soundtrack.
Boston is holding its breath, flirting with snow.
Upstairs, plugged into M.C. somebody, my son
is oblivious to headlines. The world is a gift,
just waiting for his fingers to loose the ribbon.
He won’t find out until later that a boy with his
face, his swagger, his common veil, died crumpled
on a Dorchester street. He will turn away from
tonight’s filmed probings into the boy’s short stay,
stutterings from stunned grandmammas,
neighbors slowly shaking their heads. He’ll pretend
not to see the clip of the paramedics screaming
obscenities at the boy’s heart, turning its stubborn
key with their fists. Want anything, Ma? he’ll ask
from the kitchen, where he has skulked for shelter,
for a meal of sugar and bread to block his throat.
The crisp, metallic stench of the busted speakers
reminds me that there are other things to do.
My computer hums seductively.
My husband hints that he may want to argue about sex.
I think about starting a fire, but don’t think I can stand
the way the paper curls, snaps, and dissolves into ash.
So I climb the stairs to my son’s room,
rest my head against the door’s cold wood,
listen to the muffled roars of rappers. But I don’t knock.
He deserves one more moment of not knowing that boy’s face,
how I ran to Aretha’s side, how tight the ribbon is tied.