Toi Derricotte Poems
|1.||from Burial Sites||6/26/2015|
|2.||Black Boys Play the Classics||7/3/2015|
|3.||From A Letter: About Snow||12/19/2011|
|5.||Elegy For My Husband||1/29/2015|
|7.||For Black Women Who Are Afraid||1/9/2015|
|9.||A Note On My Son's Face||1/7/2015|
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A Note On My Son's Face
Tonight, I look, thunderstruck
at the gold head of my grandchild.
Almost asleep, he buries his feet
between my thighs;
his little straw eyes
close in the near dark.
I smell the warmth of his raw
slightly foul breath, the new death
waiting to rot inside him.
Our breaths equalize our heartbeats;
every muscle of the chest uncoils,
the arm bones loosen in the nest
of nerves. I think of the peace
of walking through the house,
pointing to the name of this, the name of that,
an educator of a new man.
Mother. Grandmother. ...