Bélizaire and Other Poems
Bélizaire
The fact that he was covered up haunted me. . . . We knew we needed to find out who he was, as a son of Louisiana and as somebody who is worthy of being remembered.
—Jeremy K. Simien, Baton Rouge art collector
This boy I was was born to the dross of arson,
raised in the shells of capsized buildings.
Child yet to learn what history teaches.
Young inheritor of fire: whimward cleanser,
raised in the shells of capsized buildings.
Child yet to learn what history teaches.
Young inheritor of fire: whimward cleanser,
skystainer. Migraine bells and red ears. He ran
through the hallway filled gray, through
muscle memory of home. His mother
was a fading apparition, his sister choked asthma.
through the hallway filled gray, through
muscle memory of home. His mother
was a fading apparition, his sister choked asthma.
Down the stairs, gray turned orange, orange
gray, then sight: a crowd outside watched
the billowing windows, an obelisk of smoke
rose high into the night. Upon returning,
gray, then sight: a crowd outside watched
the billowing windows, an obelisk of smoke
rose high into the night. Upon returning,
the halls were painted a pastel yellow.
*
in the sea’s bleak blue, in olive streaks
of far-off land. your head was shoved
a hundred years behind a scrape of cloud.
and hollowed you. left you ghost
of a garage, louisiana. smothered haunting,
spectral shadow. sold again and sold again.
is restored—cotton swabs and tweezers,
a worker ant’s digging. you’ve been exhumed,
sent north and hung footless on white walls.
*
Time passes. Someone tore frantic
into the hallway’s wall. Layers peek out:
Charcoal 2020. Raw sienna ’16. Cerulean ’11.
Indigo ’09. Yellow ’04. Vermillion 2000.
into the hallway’s wall. Layers peek out:
Charcoal 2020. Raw sienna ’16. Cerulean ’11.
Indigo ’09. Yellow ’04. Vermillion 2000.
Tints of further years I never knew.
Tattered eucalyptus bark, decades
of faded rainbows. decades. faded
rainbows and i can find him—
Tattered eucalyptus bark, decades
of faded rainbows. decades. faded
rainbows and i can find him—
rip through self like a forgotten gift
till blood till fallen nails he must
be in here—i used to hear him—
i used to hear this boy wail milk
till blood till fallen nails he must
be in here—i used to hear him—
i used to hear this boy wail milk
and crunchy peanut butter
where is he?—he knows nothing
of this place—this redundant body
blighted skin blazing world
where is he?—he knows nothing
of this place—this redundant body
blighted skin blazing world
he’s in here—i can save him—
he hasn’t learned to ask for help—
he hasn’t learned to ask for help—
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the waiter is black the pretty pool glistens
cerulean the pretty sky unhindered the pretty
sand litterless topaz warping the background
the pretty ocean is every trope of a pretty ocean
in every sense the luminaries etched onto stone
bloody millennia bodies drop our pretty words
the trees fall the pretty bodies the ephemera
bodies wither body body all our lives
toppled bodies fire falling pretty pretty sky
Daisies
When I was born, my mother
would write my name
against paper over and over—
her blue cursive like river
would write my name
against paper over and over—
her blue cursive like river
to riverbed—until there was
no room for words.
In the crevices
she doodled little daisies.
no room for words.
In the crevices
she doodled little daisies.
I have grown. Inherited
her idle hands. The way
they find new ways
to trouble trouble.
her idle hands. The way
they find new ways
to trouble trouble.
But no two hands upend it all.
Stale breath. Old dreams. I cloud
insomnia, voices in my ear.
New moon glides
Stale breath. Old dreams. I cloud
insomnia, voices in my ear.
New moon glides
across indigo nothing, starless
nothing, and I yield.
A patch of flotsam lost
to the whim of wave and wind.
nothing, and I yield.
A patch of flotsam lost
to the whim of wave and wind.
At a loss for lighthouses.
Candleless. Sometimes
things are nothing more
than what they are. The sea
Candleless. Sometimes
things are nothing more
than what they are. The sea
is only the sea. The sand is
only sand. The sky just sky.
War just war. Death, death.
People who were once here,
only sand. The sky just sky.
War just war. Death, death.
People who were once here,
once were. What was, was.
No longer and no more.
I run fingers along the water.
Speak my name against the silence
No longer and no more.
I run fingers along the water.
Speak my name against the silence
over and over. Hoping
to be reborn. But a name
is just a name. Those daisies,
just adornment. Idle hands.
to be reborn. But a name
is just a name. Those daisies,
just adornment. Idle hands.
Read on . . .
“The Docent,” a poem by Cassandra Cleghorn