It landed on the kitchen table next to the watermelon. Â Like a Sunday newspaper on Thursday. Â Set aside for recycling. Â Or an abandoned spoon after dessert. It sat there foreign but familiar. Â Like an African American in America.
The carousel sang loudly. Drowned out the relief of parental duties. Â Playful screams resonated the atmosphere. Â Cotton candy decorated white faces pink and blue. Mustard stains on white t-shirts. Scraped knees caused by unattended shoelaces. The day was glee and the night carefree, as flying gravel spun under running feet.
Her bladder was full of miles like her mother’s. Â She watered the ground with chocolate auburn. Â The spices enticed the clouds to cry and capture the streets. Â She met him where the sun sat in the fire pit. Â He kissed her hand to summons a feather so she wouldn’t doubt his words. Â His eyes were complete like the turn of an owl’s head. Â The preacher announced their commitment where roads met corners with mirrors. Â He hung their picture in a birdcage to catch time. Â He told them not to be afraid.

The first season spread the hours like a bridge. He supplied water to dry, fallen branches daily. Â Believers of the unseen. Â She carried unicorns in her pockets. Â They wore audacious yellows and greens in a black and white world. Â Demanded freedom like 8 a.m. school bells. Â Unbalanced as thick as unjust. Â At night she placed sweet onions on his eyelids. He remained rooted. Â His tongue poignant from the aroma.
Dog’s were death’s best friend. Â Hydrants absent from fires. Â Hoses present at protests. Â Tilted buses full of spiritual songs. Â Northern boys with fresh fists. Southern boys with patched will. Â Northern girls with golden intuition. Southern girls with ancient maps. Â Laughter extinct. Â Spit like rain. Freedom rides. Spirits flew. Red summer. Blue years. Freedom wide. Hatred tall. Black bodies hung/ burned/ mutilated. Daylight tardy.
Soprano saxophone accompanied her screams. Â Vibrato in her hands. Â His head in her lap. Â His eyes meeting her’s was the prize. “Sit me up, turn me loose.” Abandoned from forever. She sat him up. Erect as pillars. Â Baroque rocked. Down. She sipped tea in China.
Scores for his name. His verses rhymed her forward. Â Her passion sweet as fruit. Seasoned. Made days wet cement. For imprints. Slops. Hills. Concrete with purpose. His remembrances sleep at our feet.
a prose from the book,

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