(For Akilah Oliver
and Oluchi, en memorium)
His body was decomposing her baby her flesh child she once held
at her breast. (He was dead.)
Death took residence in her head.
Neglect. Negligence. Hospital sued
over a young man left in an emergency room.
Mine,
was incarcerated.
How was it all became a crap shoot,
fate of offspring we’d nourished, adored,
gave to our last breath? They—our babies girls boys
muchachitos niños queridos
neighborhood kids—pudgy or puny and picked on
or had too many tíos,
Los García or the Walkers mom had Lupus or marido with
bad back & couldn’t work. Nephews nieces mijos mijas
nietos nietas sent out to the war on streets
society wouldn’t let them be,
not last century or the one before and not in 2018.
A poet woman mother raised a boy
migrant teacher of language went from campus to campus;
plethora of words in her arsenal Akilah and me, tokens—
brown female evolved spirit
from the Southwest or Southside of any city.
She was a teacher with dreads and sleepy-eyed smile believed—
must have–in doing right doing it strong for the sake of
teaching her son right from wrong.
If you stayed steady, she said to herself (must have)
captain on a ship of two, where Ramen noodles or mac n cheese dinner,
night bath regular, a story read, put the child to bed
graded papers ‘til 2 a.m., then started again (must have, like I had)
the child
you raised
would benefit fly like Obama had. Success—
at his fingertips.
No one would shoot him down in a gated community,
No policeman would kill him dead for reaching into a pocket,
No school would hold him back ‘til he gave up.
Diabetes and other diseases would be kept at bay.
He’d be ready your boy your flesh. your son (& mine)
mi’jos
for the perpetual onslaught.
The time came for round one bell rung Oluchi, fists up,
graffiti can,
the newly minted Black man fell. Just like that.
Just like that.
When she got the call, ran down to MLK Hospital,
put her ear next to his lips—
bloated and bluish, parched like onion skin,
having kissed their last-kiss lips, swollen and soundless,
felt no breath,
heard no final “Mama, I love you,” Her boy
left to perish on a gurney
her son her flesh,
she started to die, too, right then.
Slow drip of existence oozed through her pores.
Good-bye, love.,
Good-bye, far-reaching star,
order a round of green mint tea for the house before we move on.
Joy, as she once knew it, vaporized.
I felt it way ‘cross the land of the free and the brave
(belonging to Whites with money and no conscience.) In a world
le monde un mundo where no education,
knowledge of couplets, art, or science,
extent of good works,
community service,
lectures attended or charitable donations,
would re-set a heart broken
by a child’s ruin.
I’ll testify
not knowing each other
but the way soldiers instantly bonded.
I heard her wail
like a canine hears a dog whistle, ears up, heart pounding.
We’d shared the vanity of affording good nutrition,
books, clean water and little league.
Nothing had saved them,
not us—Amazon mothers.
(Somehow, I’ll say it now,
men, their own kind, had failed them—
abandoned the cause, went on to other households, other children.)
One afternoon, standing in her living room,
tired of beating without his, Akilah’s heart stopped.
She hit the rug heavy,
sun filtering through bay windows
kept her lifeless body warm ‘til they found her.
The killing fields are everywhere
on the train bus bike work gym or club.
Chicago L.A. Denver New York.
Mothers. aunts lil sis abuelas
with outlined lips & swaying hips—
single mothers push grocery carts on the sidewalk,
sneak out to dance,
fuck in alleyways hoping for love again,
stretch meals through the week,
have pre-paid phone cards,
spend paychecks in advance—
survive in the cracks.
I’d taught him to tie his shoes,
later, his tie, shave, ride a bike, drive a car,
have pride in work, clean the house, fry an egg, wash out his drawers,
be respectful of women, neighbors, be an honorable friend.
Now, I said to him by mail:
Look at this poet.
Look at her life,
Look at mine, see your own.
Look at her son’s wall art,
know he died at 21.
Mi’jo, don’t die there.
Don’t leave your mother
out here
alone.
Epilogue:
Mi’jo returned
& I did not end like Anticlea in hell.
Ana Castillo is a celebrated and distinguished poet, novelist, short story writer, essayist, editor, playwright, translator and independent scholar. Castillo was born and raised in Chicago. Among her award winning, best selling titles: novels include So Far From God, The Guardians, and Peel My Love like an Onion, among other poetry: I Ask the Impossible. Her novel, Sapogonia was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. In 2014 Dr. Castillo held the Lund-Gil Endowed Chair at Dominican University, River Forest, IL and served on the faculty with Bread Loaf Summer Program (Middlebury College) in 2015 and 2016. She also held the first Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz Endowed Chair at DePaul University, The Martin Luther King, Jr Distinguished Visiting Scholar post at M.I.T. , among other posts. Ana Castillo holds a Ph.D., University of Bremen, Germany in American Studies and an honorary doctorate from Colby College. Her most recent titles, Give it to Me (a novel) and Black Dove: Mamá, Mi’jo, and Me (personal essays/memoir) received LAMBDA Awards. In 2018, Dr. Castillo received PEN Oakland Reginald Lockett Lifetime Achievement Award.
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