behind his back
wrists bend toward each other
as if sentencing himself
without cuffs
(just confidence of the reprimanding of society’s hand)
he questions his lifelines,
like he knows trailing through life
overgrown cornrows, and black skin against a white sky is wrong—
or
maybe he tucks them behind himself because he got fields of self to hide,
inches of words he keeps
tucked in the sharp of his teeth, beneath shut lips
centimeters of tears that leave only when wiped with a fist
he knows to be man, you must brushstroke in bold—with not a goosebump to show—
torso stout
with blue stoic shades
to match
you cannot let them see the breaking
or the growing of a man
they want you finished product.
black Man who prevails all,
tells all—
or maybe your black Man turned cautionary tale,
a deprecating sitcom
(it’s better you keep your mouth stoic,
an expressionless blackface)
play—still silhouette on canvas
while they try to make up
what you mean?
what it means to be
man, and
Black, and
color —at the same time
what it means to be the world’s fury and beauty
contradictions make them uneasy
the history paints him dark but they see the halo ushering the glow beneath his skin,
they ask which is it?
8th wonder of the world
who beat the odds or a Emmett Till,
Vigil Ware,
or simply
a midnight-walking-street-terror
what does a black Man mean if it’s not fear
and story—
if it’s not a tapestry of multicolored narratives
why
does
a black man
have to mean
anything