American Immigrant

He walked off the yellow bus
            the young “black” man
                        the first, his pack
full of what a mother would pack

            to taunts, surrounded

gulls around a struggling fish
coyotes on a newborn calf
sharks ready to clean things up

this was Wisconsin
 not Birmingham, Selma, Biloxi

No one called him “African-American”

I remember him as cute
I remember him as friendly
I remember him scared
I remember him gone

What word, what experience
            what tears?

The proud father, craving peace
            warm earth, simple animals
            fresh green plants from the soil
                        protection for his son

Sold the farm and returned to Chicago.


Popcorn Fantasy

When the kernel popped
            when the steam blew it open
                        when it became more
it hadn’t thought of
            interpretations.

It hadn’t thought
            while in the shell
                        about sex
                                    things
just felt fine, thank you.

No color preference came to mind
            its yellowness an artifact
            of genetic chance.

It felt instant and blazing freedom
            erupting in naked glory
                        intoxicating scent
filling the air.

Its orientation changed
            with the addition of butter.

Socially gregarious
            the kernel, now liberated
            fell into the comfort
of what fate had devised

melting into the mouths of acceptance.