Savannah [Starting with a Comment from my Facebook Friend]
— for Kajieme Powell
IDK if you know but it is a city built upon its dead.
IDK if you know but 42 Portuguese Jews
walked off the William and Sarah
and made as good a home as ash.
You know these bricks are keys
mortared in their mouths.
You know the story with the butler who says,
“The General come fetch him hisself.”
You know the butler is always owned
because the tour guides always claim to be
American, the way they walk backwards
without looking back. IDK if you know
but an African-American man got himself
shot up North. “Shoot me, already,”
he demanded, the way God does
disasters when He needs proof
we believe He doesn’t matter.
basado en el imaginario Español
I am one of two “Mexicans"
this boy will remember,
only because I have tried
to ask him for a peach,
holding the twilit globe in one hand
at my cheek, looking past him for
the man who herded us here
to toss into a truck bed
armfuls of corn
like rose petals
for someone else's anniversary.
Asked if we want peaches,
we shuck our teeth of lips
and fill our shirt-guts, bagging a harvest
neither stolen nor soon street-sold.
As we shuffle past, the boy
nods and smiles, watches us
climb into the front carriage
on our elbows and, settled,
translate peaches into dimples,
chunking out the meat
beneath the flesh fuzzy
as his jaw.
His stare tells
he reads only need, loose fuel
runneled down my chin.
If Earth’s axes have any stake
in the balance of my heart
and have not pinned me dead,
neither do they know my joy.
Tim Lynch's poems have previously appeared in War, Literature and the Arts, Whirlwind Magazine, APIARY, and Deep South Magazine. He studies at Rutgers-Camden, and workshops with young writers throughout the city.