Myronn Hardy

MUCAMBO

There is one street-light in
the twenty mile stretch     violet      kryptonite.
We are walking      three

in a row      wax idols as earth melts to garnets.
I am beat-boxing (no one would
believe this)      the Bronx ubiquitous.

The others are rapping      something
by an emcee from São Paulo      dead
the year before      the claim      suicide.

The newspapers lie      dark
victims abbreviated. Hemispheric
history slithers through capillaries.

We stop at Rodrigo’s house.
The gate squeaks      a gaunt black
chicken runs into the peony bed.

The others peck discarded
carcasses in piles. Their
beaks      bronze.

Overripe grapes are offered in a blue bowl.
There is only hot water but it barely stings.
He smirks      used to power awry.

There is a debate on television.
They will vote for a new
president      once

poor      a worker from the northeast.
They’ll repair the roof.
All else weak      subterranean termites swell.

The road has become muddy.
Our flip-flops sink      stick      the flesh
in that ground rotten      stacked      easily mush.

We stretch in the white room.
Limber as octopi      wild      adulterous
we have learned to kill with limbs.

My Mets cap dangles on a hook.
Our prayers      answered
in violence.

—from Rattle #31, Summer 2009
Tribute to African American Poets