Black Men Fatherless

by Asia Calcagno

Father God and Mother Earth
birthed you on a
peace land. Swollen belly
opened up
a womb of red saliva
and life so mellow-
similar to crimson lip prints
on envelopes
to assassin. Ya body
curved over
the sizzled outline
of the sun
you sat there till
skin baked
to iodine.

I couldn't see you
becuz of the eclipse.
Could hear ya cries
for freedom
retinas dilated
umbilical cord choked
ya neck- you instantly grew tall
spine thinning
a noose of the sky
fused through ya adams apple.
Now its what
lassoes me to
ya peace.

Ya mother warned you
bout girls that would ask
to be your Neo-Soul chick.
Black poets with
fusion naturals-
luring you with poems
for brothas like you
black man...

I wrote-
about ya hands snatching
ivory tusks
out silver hide.
The genes passed down
from ya mother side
veins back tracking
brown roots

I wrote-
about beauty behind
ya name
hidden in biblical meaning
surfing through
chapters of
holy books
to discover

why God and earth
made you a mystery.

You write your own stories
to leave behind
for more men to be born
breathless, your
mighty fingers
bringing
bodies back to life

How would you tell ya son
that you were born
dieing?
Air suffocated in
eyes that give
Africa's breast its glowing
dew of morning. Ya fathers gait
runs like sapphires
under
prisms of feet
bagel crust around
ya body from
first hours on earth

you grew into a man
so fast...

Stopping bullets
with ya teeth
throwing back hurricanes
"been a crazy beautiful
journey"
you'd say
as I grasp the build
of ya body- still

a lover of
ya fist in air
even when Kenya's gravel
quilts ya skin as you
shake, dieing-
black men don't live past
21 now a days

elegies...

I wrote you one
on ya death-day
before ever meeting
the prose that you
speak. A man
I'd wish to
gives me reveries.

Lure them in cranium
like celestial eggs dosed
into ya mothers system
before she falls system,
birthing a child
that would have no father. Black
men aren't supposed to live

bullets would meet them
before a child would. Countries would
align with his corpse
as the sun and moon
sit on top of eachothers
silouhettes
legs shifting like a filial
who's breath gets stolen-
too precious
for someone
who would never know its generation.

How would you tell
ya son you were
supposed to die?

He would never hear father's
boom of jungle kings
would be told to never love a
women with
red lips
that assasin through
words... he will be her muse. To write
about her men
who have no fathers

black men that will never
sqeeze
grown women hills
over their thighs
and live to
tell tales of
Zulu and Anansi
like Asanti spiders
to their children
peace lands and
black poems that
would never make
Father God and Mother Earth
proud

because mother means
widow

most black mothers are widows...
it seems like amazing
men
were never supposed to
be fighters- or
live
to feed off of
women's poetry.