There Weren’t Many Asking How
the boy with fast hands grows into a man
with crooked fingers I crumble petals
adorn amber feet almost out of grasp
superstition our precious metal
prove us the path ascension unsettles
lesser men our language these crude tools
there weren’t enough lessons on the levels
we climb to remain completely unmoved
the spirit catches midflight and confused
flailing the speech in (or with) a chewed tongue
bawling through the expanse does it amuse
you an exchange on the wrong rung who with
what poor service cautious of self I ask
to what current could I be conduit
Bacchanal
After Rio Cortez
I sink my teeth into whatever
bucks in the distance flocks
circling dirtied dusk blankets
the field growing too wild
for a scarecrow looking
like they can be picked
& carried right off
this too small island a knot
not yet loose livestock made
reversible under night’s watch I count
grains in the heap wait
consider naming each let them fall
between fingers then upturn my hand
call what is left
our constellation black canvas palm
against stretched flesh Jasmine wants
to dance but a Jumbie ain’t got no feet
to race to river’s edge a vanishing act
a too broad smile slips & cracks
in corners
Brian Francis is a Cave Canem fellow from New York City. He has a BA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Pittsburgh and an MFA in Poetry from NYU. He lives and teaches English Language Arts to middle school students in his native Harlem, USA.
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