She Who Comes with Her Own Things | Kristiana Colón for ntozake :: a prologue We were in the clearing a tangle of ex-slaves having church or telling lies barefoot in the dust. I thought I saw your silver nose ring catch the sun and beckon through the crowd. Menfolk sat on tree stumps drinking lemonade and slapping knees, Is he your soldier? Is he your lover, your rapist? Black feet stomped the grass flat and I saw your swirl of colors winding to the drums Are these your fathers? Your ankles were fleabitten and wrapped in bells. The colored children picked up your rainbow ribbons and wound them round the maypole So many black bodies with loudly beating hearts and tambourines. I saw you dancing I wanted to ask you questions but was ashamed to interrupt, your head back, your eyes closed your golden braids bouncing gainst your shoulder blades and your poems tied in bright scarves swaying round your waist. Shug Avery stepped up on a tree stump and started singing blues. Half-braided women watched and picked their scalps. and you weren’t even startled when I tugged at the ragged hem of your patchwork skirts. I asked you to show me the ghost of the soldier and you said come on as if I had just asked you to show me the ladies room. We squeezed through the bodies packed liked a parade breathless smiles and throaty songs You smelled of talcum and patchouli loose breasts pressed against my back thrusting me through the throng, the carnavale It was a revival, it was an orgy, juneteenth and somewhere he was crouching still waiting for an all clear for the sound to come back to his ears Is he your soldier? Your lover? Your monster? We waded through the sweating torsos Over the tops of heads I saw Shug’s voice fluttering to the feet of her wide-eyed, wet-lipped admirers like dollar bills. And then you were gone. I wanted to call after you but your name is too sacred for a scream and you wouldn’t hear me anyway over the tapestry of sound old men with smiling beards pounding the taut hides of djembes women with maracas and hymnals and Shug Avery’s blues and all the clapping hands of every black child that ever was A smear of gold glinted between the necks of breathless black boys your braids lashing all that stepped too close and you weren’t even startled when I lowered my eyes and tugged the colored scarves swaying at your waist I asked you to show me the ghost of the soldier and you said come on This time I did not let go to the rainbow tied in scarves swirling around your skirts. You took me to him. He was crying in the shade away from all the singing. Is he your monster? Your valentine? You shook him awake from the sobs and demanded he shake my hand.  read about the author Contributors.htmlshapeimage_2_link_0
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commentary | poetry | fiction | chicago | winter 2008  
Single Life #8 | Amy Groshek Parallel Conservatory | Clare Kirwan Old & Strong | Robert Gibbons Crow | Ramesh Avadhani Driving Ninety | Mark Spencer With Her Own Things | Kristiana Colón Story of a Hall Porter | Edward Mc Whinney The Halcyon Days of War | B.E. Hopkins Three Stories | Laurence Davies Contradiction | from the editor Reviews On the Contrary Archives | SearchCapacity.htmlConservatory.htmlStrong.htmlCrow.htmlNinety.htmlPorter.htmlHalcyon.htmlWinter-2008.htmlContradiction-2.htmlReviews.htmlContrary.htmlArchives.htmlshapeimage_6_link_0shapeimage_6_link_1shapeimage_6_link_2shapeimage_6_link_3shapeimage_6_link_4shapeimage_6_link_5shapeimage_6_link_6shapeimage_6_link_7shapeimage_6_link_8shapeimage_6_link_9shapeimage_6_link_10shapeimage_6_link_11shapeimage_6_link_12