you hear this clown with his clichés?
It gets real quiet again.
Nobody claps.
Nobody even laughs.
Everyone looks at me.
Nobody says a peep. Until . . .
Sit down, joker! You didn’t write the letter, but I know
who did.
You do? Sam asks, turning around looking at Walt,
and then me.
Nerves
I look at Cruz.
I look at Sam.
I look at the blank faces.
The glaring time
on the clock.
I try not to let my lips
become bricks,
my tongue an anchor,
my mouth a desert.
Verve
There’s this tune
on the GO! album
called Second Balcony Jump,
which always reminds me
of one of those old cowboy movies
where a girl
is getting harassed
at the bar
by some drunk,
then a smooth, handsome cowboy
with a thick mustache
moseys in
with his hat low
over his eyes
and utters a few
slick words:
Hey, partner, why don’t you leave the lady be,
less like a question,
more like an ultimatum,
and the drunk fool will answer,
I reckon this is none of your business, stranger,
and clumsily pull out his six-shooter,
at which point
he will get shot dead
between the ears
by the handsome stranger,
who will then
ride off
into the sunset
with the lady
on his arm.
Tonight, you’re the star, I say
to myself, and
this is your movie.
Writing the Story
You will reach into your pocket. And pull out a folded
piece of paper. You will open it. Because it is your destiny
to open it. Because, if this were a movie, you would be
the hunter. And if they led you to the frontier, you would
demand the ranch. And if they let you on the ranch, you
would own the farm. And if they let you own the farm,
you would take the house. And if they let you in the
house, you would take that white piece of paper, unwrap
it. And go.
And.
Go.
Reckoning
Sam, I say, softly,
the echo
frightening.
My breath quickens
like I’m swimming
from sharks,
like I’m swimming
for my life.
And then
I jump,
an ocean spilling
from my mouth.
The Wave Is Coming
Since the third grade,
when you saved my life,
I’ve marveled
at the pristine
masterpiece
that is you.
I am no Michelangelo.
But you are my mezza fresco.
This moment here
is my primo canvas.
I am not a superhero.
Nor a superstar.
Not Cruz or Superman.
I am just
a boy
colored by the scent
of a woman.
I am not a painter, Sam.
But I will paint you
with kindness
and passion.
I, uh—I am X.
Not because I don’t want you
to know me.
But because I’ve always wanted you
to discover me.
PROVE IT, LOSER! Cruz yells,
speed-walking toward me
like he’s up to bat
in the bottom
of the ninth
with the bases loaded.
So I reach into
my pocket
and pull out
a pitch
I’ve been waiting
all my life
to throw.
Part 4
Love for Sale
Quiet
owns the party
again.
Then everyone roars
like I’ve won
an MMA match—beat
out the lone champ.
Hope Cruz doesn’t pummel me.
Hope Sam doesn’t leave me
ringside, wounded
and alone.
Bewildered
Eyes wide
with hesitance
and disequilibrium,
she just shakes
her head
over and over
while everyone stares.
I look at her,
Cruz looks at her,
then me,
then he frowns
and just storms
out of the house,
looking beat
for the first time
in his life.
She comes up to me,
and I don’t know
if she’s gonna smack me
or kiss me,
and now I can see
the sun
in her eyes
shining on me,
can feel
her arms
wrap themselves
around me,
so I do the same,
and we hug
tight
like we’ve never
done before,
and I feel parts
of her country
I’ve never traveled to,
and
she whispers,
It’s you.
It’s me, I say.
We Interrupt This Broadcast
Let’s go outside, she says,
holding
my hand
in hers
and pulling me
into a joy
I’ve only
ever dreamt of.
But just before
we exit,
someone
in the family room
yells:
OH, SNAP! WHAT’S HE DOING UP THERE?!
It’s a bird,
it’s a plane.
No, it’s a wasted
senior
on the baseball team
named Junior Wilson,
who tries
to take
a selfie video,
shirt off,
while leaping
over the railing
upstairs
onto the couch
below.
He Misses
We’re crowded around
Junior Wilson
as he hollers out
like a werewolf in pain,
upstaging my night.
My back, my neck, my femur. I can’t move, he hollers,
while hitting the floor with both hands and squiggling.
You’re moving fine, I say. I called an ambulance.
He’s gonna be all right. He’s like Superman, Junior’s best
friend, Will, brags. He jumped from a roof into a pool last
year and only scraped his knees. I’ll take him to urgent
care, if I need to. He probably just needs a brewsky to kill
the pain.
If you move him, Divya says, it will cause additional pain
and permanent injury. We should wait for the EMTs.
The sirens
get closer
by the second.
Someone looks
out the window
and yells,
POLICE! POLICE ARE HERE TOO!
In less time
than it took
Jun
ior to jump
from the balcony,
the place empties,
bodies mad-dashing,
knocking over chairs,
spilling drinks,
tearing out
the back door
and into the woods
like fugitives
of the night,
leaving me,
Walt, Divya, Sam, Junior,
and Uncle Stanley Stanley
to face
the music.
Over
The party was all Bossa
and Nova
until now.
Knock, Knock
Walt and Divya scramble
to collect party evidence.
Of course,
all the cars out front
give us away.
The knocks get louder.
I open the door.
Please, come in, I say to the EMTs. Junior’s over by the
couch, I say, pointing to Junior Wilson, who’s grimacing
and holding his leg.
Nightmare
Coming up
my walkway
behind
the EMTs
are two police officers,
and Cruz,
with his hands
behind his back.
BUSTED
Young man, is this your house?
Yes, sir, I answer.
I’m going to need you to fill me in on what happened.
WHY DO YOU HAVE HIM HANDCUFFED? Sam
yells, trying to run past me, but I hold her back.
That’s our friend, I say.
We got a call about a loud party going on here. Are your
parents around?
LET HIM GO, Sam yells.
We found your friend putting a flag on a car window,
he says, pushing Cruz down on his knees. It’s a federal
offense, what he’s been doing.
I’m assuming you’re being hyperbolic, ’cause putting a flag
on a car is not a crime, Walt says.
It wasn’t me, Cruz says, visibly shaken.
So maybe you should let him go. Like Noah said, he’s a
guest.
Was there a party here?
Sirs, we were having a get-together, Divya interjects.
Tea and jazz music. See the band right there? she adds,
pointing through the window to Uncle Stanley Stanley’s
band, which is, oddly, still playing.
Why are all these cars parked out here? one of the police
officers asks us.
One of them is my truck. I was taking the flag off of it. I
wasn’t doing anything wrong, you feel me? Cruz says.
And why are y’all so concerned about the flags? It’s just
art, right? Sam says.
Yeah, I say, feeling the tension in the air, and not wanting
Sam to face it alone.
It’s because he’s black and in this neighborhood, isn’t it?
Sam asks, less like a question, more like a fact.
Look, we don’t have a problem with you. Let’s not escalate
this.
Your lack of imagination is the only thing that could
escalate this. You probably think he’s in a gang or
something, right? Walt asks, making things even more
tense, before Divya pulls him back inside the house.
Was he at the party? the other police officer asks me.
There wasn’t really a party, sir, I lie. Just some kids
hanging out, listening to jazz. But he’s telling the truth—
that’s his truck.
How did he get hurt? the officers ask, pointing to Junior
Wilson, who’s being carted out on a stretcher.
. . . .
Look, we can answer questions here, or down at the
station.
No one says anything,
not just because we know
there’s no reason
to take us down
to the station,
but because
we’re all afraid.
They Pick Cruz Up, Unlock His Cuffs, Shove Him Toward Us
I’d advise you all
to go back
in the house,
cancel any plans
you have
for your little tea party,
and if you see
or hear anything
to do with
this flag business,
you call us.
You feel ME?!
Men in Blue
Police officers
don’t say freeze
like they do
in the movies.
They just make you
freeze in a fear
cloaked
in deep, dark dread.
And they don’t
look menacing
all the time.
Some look like
they might actually
be a little gentle,
a little on the kind side.
But then
there’s a gun
pinned to their hip,
that makes your heart pound
so loud,
your ears burst.
And you’re not sure
what to do,
or what to say,
or how to move.
What if it’s
the wrong move?
Some look so stern,
like they don’t
have emotions
or a heart
that beats red.
But you wonder
if they might
smile when they’re home
with their own families,
playing with their own kids.
Like the guy in front of me.
He has no expression,
but under his straight lips
and steely stare,
someone must make him love.
He loves somebody.
He’s gotta love somebody.
And I hope he remembers
somebody loves us too.
They leave us all with a warning
that almost feels
like a threat.
They leave
as if nothing
has happened.
But we all know
something has.
We stand
on the front porch
confused,
confounded,
a little terrified.
But no one shows it
more than Cruz,
who looks like
he was
beat up
and left for
the wolves.
There is an inescapable
fear in his face.
A dejected hero.
Almost like
a lost boy
in the dark.
He doesn’t make eye contact
with any of us,
just crawls away
on both legs.
You should take him home, I say to Sam, not because
I want you to go with him,
but because he obviously shouldn’t drive
and he obviously is broken up
right now, we all are,
and this is just the worst,
and you’re the best—
No, you’re the best, Noah, she says, kissing me
centimenters from
my lips,
then going after
Cruz.
Tomorrow?
The police lights
fade into the distance,
just like Sam,
as I watch her
hurry down
my driveway
to console Cruz.
They hop
into her car,
and I hear
the sad sound
of leaving
as my stomach
swallows
the longing whole.
I have no way of knowing
what will happen,
and if tonight
will mean anything
tomorrow.
I want to crawl back
into the house,
find my covers,
hide under them
until next year,
or the next.
What have I done?
Why did I let HIM win again?
I walk past Divya and Walt
curled up on the couch,
leg to leg,
arm to arm,
like two starfish.
The band finally stops, and
we all move into the kitchen,
listening
to classical music,
eating fried chicken,
leftover biscuits,
and not saying
a single word
until we hear
something crash
in the living room.
Intruder
Shhh . . . Don’t talk. Don’t move, Walt says, grabbing
a salad utensil,
as if he can protect us
with a wooden spork.
We huddle,
slowly ease our way
into the living room
to see, floating out there
like a living ghost
right next to
my mom’s prized
(and now broken)
elephant,
Moses Jones—
Walt’s big brother.
Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2
are the first words out
of Mo’s mouth.
We stand there
dumbfounded
for a millisecond,
until Walt flies
toward his brother,
and grabs him tight.
MO!!!
I see his eyes
as he hugs Walt back.
They’re vacant,
like his body
left his soul
back in Afghanistan.