Me, My Half-Brother and his Dad (Who I Fuck) Get Tattoos of Each Others’ Names, All Misspelled; or, Don’t Call It A Lover’s Quarrel; or, American History, 2009-2029
So say I stab a white man
on camera.
Yo daddy been getting on my nerves.
He sent his Stephen Miller to say he’s spoiling
for a fight. If I give him what he wants,
your camera
turned on me would not be American history.
—
America the Son shole is daddy’s baby. Got his fist.
Mama’s maybe
monster, I would never end my story in blood. But
water ain’t the only wet I wade.
—
Curtal, our mama curtsies | the Father’s hellish pleasures.
Now this is America
-n history: her dance undoing Father’s face,
limb by limb unlashing him into hope.
—
Misprize your [country | father | monster] into hope
and he may grow golden
brown at the edges. Still monster.
—
If I was American History, I would flow like ink
down America
the Father’s back, shoulders, sides, trunk, ass.
Painting him his name.
—
Brother if your father is a monster
call me Kaiju, curve your camera
Trust. You don’t wanna miss what comes next.
The Poet-Hearted King of the Jets Unprophesies His Perfect Lover Upon Lifting Her Veil And Finding No Skin, or, American History, from the 2004 Democratic National Convention to the Day of Barack Obama’s Inauguration
America don’t know it yet but that stranger
from the other side of the city will come
to be the love of your life and the death
of you or your name or something like that.
it’s maybe just out of reach
down the block, on a beach
under a tree…
history has gotten too boring
for a country full of dreamers
violent to uninherit
what we call the violet
experience: anything that is, you too
could be. who knows… there’s
something due any day
I will know right away…
country with no shame
-faces, country clean of want, country
where the muse’s opposite bumps
and thuds underground, what will
become American history has
a warning for you:
it may come cannonballing down through sky
gleam in its eye
bright as a rose… who knows…!
nothing comes
so swiftly
as the one thing
you did not
ask God for:
what stalks you
in this life
or the next
is what
-ever your eyes
have seen,
could be… who knows…
and your mind has edited
out. cutless
country, blood
soaks your blind
synapses but
blood will find its word
-less way to
defile you, stain
your smart suit.
something’s coming
I don’t know what it is but it is
for you, may even be
the love of your life:
a President
not too stupid
to keep you safe,
to clean your hands,
to unsin you,
to justify and/or
sanctify your blood
-shed, be perfect for you,
tell you you are who
you always wanted
to be
The air is humming
and something great is
growing in your disused
synapses; something slickens
in your hope-hungry heart, may be
even the love of your life.
even the love of your life
inside you too will
violet: anything that is
you too can be. you too can be
in danger. shamefaced,
project your hat and beg
for mercy from the way
love will wreck you. you
are not the king of the world.
Christopher Leigh Silverberg is Black, queer, churchy, theater-obsessed, writes poems, helps other people make films, and loves all these things. He is originally from Dallas, Texas and now lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. He is grateful to his teachers at Columbia University and Cave Canem. His work appears or will appear in Callaloo and FIYAH. christophersilverberg.com.