Poetry Magazine, Monique Davis, January 2002

Poetry Magazine

Monique Davis

USA

“A Song for Malcolm”

remembering your first words
	remembering how it was that so few followed
	           for so long

remembering your first steps
	remembering the impulse flight response unexplained
                           for so long

remembering your first hug
	remembering the merciless anxiety that had you cling
	           for so long

you may one day know
(you may never know)
how empty my life’s purpose before you came to be

you may one day know
(you may never know)
how each and every triumph forever changes me

your victories transcend all understanding
your accomplishments surpass all scope of imagination
	and on darkest days, your voice sings to my spirit
		“M-A-L-C-O-L-M spells Malcolm”
		translation: it’s going to be alright

now, you speak!
	boldly, assertively, confidently
                            and they stare
	            they don’t know

now, you leap!
	grandly, fiercely, but willing to be reigned
                             yet they stare
	             they don’t know

now, you bid me farewell..
	as often as you clasp my waist
                             still they stare
	                       they don’t know
                                	(Lord, they don’t know)

but for me
I will celebrate every victory
	with a parade of my best intentions
	and floats decorated with my love
	and bands trumpeting all my dreams for you

	and I will sing this song,
		a song for Malcolm
		with a choir of God’s angels

                and if autism leads you to echo
                                 then sing loudly,
                	sing proudly
			my beautiful boy

"SHOTGUN HOUSES"

it's been so long since i've been home
     home in New Orleans - surrounded by New Orleans
     caressed by visions of moist smoke and raw heat
	rising from scorched rues
          		past the rotting porches of shotgun houses

it's been so long since i've strolled
     strolled the way New Orleanians stroll -
     unhurried and thoughtful like
     	passionately kissing the cobblestone walks with the intimate soles
of naked feet
          		along the rotting porches of shotgun houses

it's been so long since i've lost myself
     lost station and vanity - inflicted with that New Orleans amnesia
     defiantly pledging allegiance 
	to the sins and imperfections of the native quarter
          		amidst the rotting porches of shotgun houses

it's been so long since i've danced
     danced that New Orleans second-line dance -
     stroked by the notes of the second-line band
     	sucking on liquored air and crawfish heads and sauntering drunkenly
          		beside the rotting porches of shotgun houses

it's been so long since i've been home
     home in New Orleans - surrounded by New Orleans -
     think i'll cook up some shrimp today and
	reminisce about my days growing up
          		amongst the rotting porches of shotgun houses

"I ever tell you?"

I'm missing
	a corner po-boy shop
	the delectable funk of fresh fish and gulf shrimp
		saturating your clothes and skin
	the quiet sizzle of hot sausage on a grill 
		bursting with red liquid fat
	the old, heavy-set lady with one gold crown 
		who calls you baby no matter how old you get
			manning the faded green cash register

I'm missing
	a Sunday at the lake
	the lusty, odorous fornication of crawfish, 
		crabs, and beer 
	the sun cracked sidewalks 
		scorching the bottoms of calloused bare feet
	the distant whoops of grimy children desperately
		pumping legs on swings and hanging on to 
			furiously spinning merry-go- rounds

I'm missing
	a Mardi Gras parade 
	the night air dripping with raining doubloons 
		and the humid perfume of the Mississippi on Canal
	the barrage of colors of beads of floats of people;
		dark-skinned, light skinned Creole people
	the hypnotic intensity of black high school bands;
		high stepping, loud and distorted,playing every song off the
radio, 
			swearing they can blow out Southern

I'm missing
	a place I know as home
	the robust stinch, the pungent beauty
	the aphrodisiacal rhythm of living
	the methodical rhythm of living freely 
		I ever tell you I was from New Orleans?

"joined"

your words trace my thoughts
	like the inscription of your tongue on my spine
baptized in your essence - saturated
with climactic anticipation of your spoken word
	until mere words grow inconsequential
	our thoughts as consummately bound as our flesh
		(no beginning - no end)
permeating our individual consciousness
 penetrating the walls of individualism
	our souls no longer separate
		but one