Rumpus Original Poetry: Two Poems by Alexa Patrick

The first boy to call me beautiful

had hair like a waving fist, walked
down the hallway, radius of curl 
beckoning white hands that he’d 
allow, though, I’d watch a little 
light in him dim to tar. This, 
a language us onlies have, 
where no language need exist 
at all. 
            Survival. 
                        Head nod. 

Richie was his name, but
he came to our town escaping
a poor Bronx corner. Moved
in with a white family, started 
playing lacrosse. Think 
Fresh Prince meets
The Blind Side meets 
other stories of roots lost 
            for progress

This, while I convinced myself 
to like salad just for the Abercrombie
jeans hanging in my closet. 
Pushed straight hair over scabs 
on my scalp; the need to fit 
louder than the burn 
crawling up my neck

Most times, his friends, 
no-lip white boys, spit 
in my direction, then, messaged 
me to ask what my mouth 
might do, knowing they’d pass 
me in hallways later
            laughing
                        laughing
                                    laughing

Imagine my joy 
looking down to see his name 
lighting the phone, a new tone 
ringing as blood pushed 
and softened the Black 
of my cheeks

            Ur beautiful

from the only boy who might understand
what those words mean

            but don’t tell ne1 I said that, ok?

The Black Men Outside The Waterfront Safeway Serenade Me

*this poem uses lines from “Walk on By” by Dionne Warwick

Smoke pours from the well of their mouths,
waltzes to the moon and gasps.
The crowd around is the same crowd
always around; the only city 
that does not move

unless there is a song

Concrete glosses to sheet vinyl
as they hum the names of women
who broke their hearts, I, 
carry a dinner I will not share,
avoiding their sequin retinas,
bringing a phone to my ear to speak to no one.

Walk on by, walk on by, make me believe…

They must know the number of quiet Saturdays
the father I haven’t heard from—
the static on the other end

Foolish pride is all that I have left
Let me hide…

They stand, monuments to themselves,
in the middle of white marble, 
cleaned and surveilled incessantly. 
I, too, expect to too many eyes, 
not enough hands (not gentle ones)

I just can’t get over losing you
And so if I seem broken…

I worry my loneliness is 
the loudest thing about me,
but I drown in the men’s spilling.
One even used his good knee
to climb the rickety bench,
arms open like sky

Miss Lady! Miss Lady! I know you hear me!
***

Author photo by Carletta Girma