Oh, I think they like me
with a brain freeze,
my sneeze summered into
sensations: showmanship.
Oh, I think they like
me down with the power
moves and painkillers,
circa my shoddy stint
as somebody's son.
Direct deposits with my name
cursed along their backs
and mine along a muted seat
I paid good money for.
Oh, I think they like me with my
towering spine, my uneven
hips, my enamel as dark as the sense
of humor on my mother's side.
I'd rather the route of washing
a mouth out with black soap,
than my father's
slapping the black off me,
and I think they like me
like that: with the black off.
Oh, I think they like me in
a fugitive color—
indigo lake, carmine, or
rose madder. It gets
to me how these
fighting words warm
me with their blue
bias, warn me of my
stingy gestures
grandfathered in.
Lightfast after I lift
a mirror to my eye
level and spot a taper
as timid as tough love.
Oh, I think they
like me for it: my M.O.,
who I am when I am
laid off, my stunt double
and inside voice
careening about.
__________________________
From Tender Headed by Olatunde Osinaike. Poem reprinted with the permission of Akashic Books; copyright retained by Olatunde Osinaike. All rights reserved.
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