Category: Yona Harvey

by Yona Harvey

after Etta James, Live from San Francisco, 1994

Lord, Etta—

Something told me My mama waited too long to mention it was over. When

I saw you with that girl & yall was talking her neighbor saw you with that girl

& yall was talking cueing your music all summer long Something deep down

—scotch Something deep down & water, Something deep down gin & Something

deep down you, Something deep down said / it was over / When I saw you / gone & cry

girl she knew how to keep company. All my muscles deep down undone

now. Girl, I shoulda Something told me Something told me Something told me

had your name. Et-ta, Et-ta. Et-ta. & I’d rather. Let the men holler after

me, & I’d rather let the women shake their heads. Something told me relish

the cool I was just sitting here thinking of a single ice cube thinking melted

thinking at the bar counter, thinking thinking thinking thinking far from

conversation. You sang the songs & I’m scared to be by myself. Your mama

warned you not to—& I’d rather & I’d rather & I’d rather & I’d rather &—be by

myself. Yo. Yo. Hmmm. & yo. I see yall know what I’m talking bout when I say, sweet

sin & excess, & yo. I see yall know what I’m talking bout when I say, Cigarettes

& yo. & yo. & yo. & yo the smoke when I look down into my glass & say

Yo, Summer. Yo & yo & revealing its Yo damp sky, Yo. Yo. Yo. Yo. Yo. Yo. &

yo. When I saw you with that same person & I’m scared to be by myself. &

holler after me. Too long. Something told me.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

—That time—

when boys who were down said, “down,” & dressed

in such a way that their out-of-school clothes resembled

their night- &-day clothes & play clothes & on-the-court

or on-the-field clothes

those don’t-wanna-be-like-them clothes

—that time—

one boy walked alongside the dark in his dark

knee-length shorts & bulb-bright shirt that inflated

& deflated whenever the wind entered or exited the sleeves

as if to say when puffed, This is the man he will become, &

when shrunken, But he is only on the verge now,

& it appeared as if a narrow flame

were flaring & flickering & walking or floating alongside

a long stretch of road

there were no street signs or landmarks

just the dark stretching

away from itself & the boy walking off walking away

rather than toward anyone or anything

though maybe that’s the way it felt when one watched another

walking from a distance, the boy kept moving

& each time it seemed as though he might stop to check

if he were headed in the right direction or wipe his hands on his shirt

or listen for rickety trucks or long rope troubles that wickedly come

the boy never stopped

not even to pull

his shoestrings tighter

which wouldn’t have mattered

because he wore no shoes or socks

& the patch of trees ahead outblacked the sky

& announced themselves & bent & swore we are safe trees

for they knew their branches had been defiled & low-hanging & long-

broken & eased into

the earth the trees were weary from what they had seen

from how they had been used & could not account for the crimes

of men who had not yet atoned—

so they bent their leaf-thick heads & revealed a new path for the boy

that he might make his way to live alongside long-living boys

& just like that

the boy was in a forest

& the road disappeared behind him

& the boy walked further toward the shelter

of more trees away from the doomed

& damned & hunted & heckled & haunted & hounded & slaughtered

& drowned &

weighted at the river bottom

the boy outflamed the flame

he was becoming

other boys alongside other boys

he appeared to be so much & so many

he swore to sequoia & redwood, “I will not burn you,”

& it was true he would not raze

though the boy had brightened

the lives of the ones he loved & left

through a hole in his chest

& he walked right through

& upward grew

& knew he could walk

the length of floridatexasmissouriohionewyorkcalifornia & back again

one day

soon is now son rise up singing one day soon is now son rise up singing one day soon son

is now son rise up singing one day soon is today son rise up swinging one day soon is now

son rise up swinging one day soon is now son rise is today son rise up swinging

& swinging he could hear singing on the other side though he knew he was gone

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

When she comes running over like that. Like an apology. Like she

must. When she seems frightened. When she seems wounded. When

she seems to have been bullied. In a park. Just like this one. She’d been

showing off. Like a high yellow song. Like now. But still. She seems

fragile & thin. In the gray cloak of winter. When she should go.

Maybe start all over. Where she started. Where it all first sugared.

& turned black. Cavernous. Cavity. An exaggeration. Just a little dip.

A cut of air. Like a mistake. What we say to one another. Stays out

there. What we do also. An apology—

is not an eraser. Maybe a filling. A cover. For words spoken in haste.

Or maybe. With purpose. With fear & anger. If she should go now.

How would her flock know to find her? With a new family? With

purpose? With fear & anger? Where she started. Like a magpie out

of orbit. Dismissed. All that energy. All those slicked-back feathers.

They looked like no feathers at all. Naked. Out of purpose. Where

should she go? Like a mistake. Where she started. She wants to start

all over. But.

Who am I to say? The eye is often mistaken. Or is it the mind?

Always eager to interpret. To turn one’s mouth. Every witcha way.

But what does the eye know? What it seeks. The magpie twirling in

the park. Stumbling. Like a liar. The gelled-back feathers. Was she

caught in the snow? Just seconds. Before. Working to know. What

one can never. With purpose? A cover. For words spoken. In haste.

& anger. She seemed hurt. She seemed. Like a magpie. Like a liar. But

I might be wrong. What my eye saw. Where I started. Just seconds

before. A lost thing.

She seemed fragile. Thinner than ever. Preoccupied. Hungry. Like

someone had made a mistake. Had they? Always eager. She wanted to

start all over. We all want that. From time to time. A cut of air. A

cut of the eye. All that sadness. Just seconds. After. Let’s erase. With

purpose? With gladness? A map. Put your hammer away. If a woman

seems fragile. Try to focus. On a magpie. On a blend-in bird.

A lost thing. Happens. The eye can miss. Just seconds. She seemed

fragile. Different. Like a high yellow sadness. Like someone. A lost

thing. From time to time. A tiny hole. A little dip. Shield her from

air. Like a second. In snow. Without a flock.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

I was in a neurosurgeon’s waiting room awaiting Aaro’s test results—

he’d slammed his skull on the basketball court & his pupils pulsed

cartoony, black spirals & asterisks, & loony exclamations. His dizzy

days had placed us in the clipboard’s teeth, snapping. NBA season—

the finals—& Doctor Phil was interviewing a boy who’d killed his

mother—bashed his mother’s head with a sledgehammer & set her

house on fire.

“It’s ritual,” said the doc, “It’s self-soothing.”

To bash someone’s head? To set a house on fire?

Okay, Doc. Okay, America. Okay.

I forget how daytime gnaws us till evening if we linger too long in its

jaws. Everything wrong with us seemed to glow from the insides of

a flat screen. I wondered what was up next? A razor? A switchblade?

A machete? Little bits of bone? The boy’s little blonde brother, nearly

dying, too?

Okay, Homemakers. Okay, Ratings.

A nurse walked Aaro to an exam room. Free throws & foul shots

chatter. Winners & losers. Favorite players. LeBron James slept

somewhere between games. How many times had Aaro hit his head in

the past few years?

“Bring it in,” Aaro said when I joined him. “Chill,” he said.

Did this mean he was the kind of son who’d hug his mother tightly

before turning away? The kind of kid who shrugged off blond boys,

the kind of kid who’d leave home at twelve & assemble a band &

adorn his fro with feathers & cowries & swear he learned the birds &

the bees from Netflix, Grand Theft Auto & the Internet?

Okay, Worst Fears.

What was the last thing Aaro remembered? A thwack. The court’s

distant border. I forget how competitive he gets. I forget how fragile.

Diagnosis: no games for three weeks. Supervised exercise. Rest. Okay,

Inevitable. My mother didn’t care much for television. “Turn that stuff

off,” she’d say. “Talk to me.” I forget how mustache begins in shadow,

how hairlines fade gradually. What makes a child turn? One year,

Cleveland fans burned LeBron’s jersey.

Okay, Christians. Okay, Cavaliers.

I forget how every son leaves us at least once. I forget how quiet a

house without television. Son, don’t bring any spiders home. Or

lovers or trash talk. I forget how we bring those, anyway. I forget

how hypnotic the television.

Eat your dinner, son. Eat your dinner.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

Used with the permission of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

I grew up with pickles. I slept in

the attic (cigarettes, sheets laced with

smoke). The heat of my father’s

brother’s old room. Larry Blackmon

painted for effect & Chaka Khan’s lips

more like a kiss if a kiss could walk

when it came to life. If a kiss

could have hips & legs & ass—

well, I wanted that.

& if the colors could sweat & strip

me down to my slip, well,

I wanted that, too. Nobody knew

what I was thinking up there.

Though, maybe, they wanted that. That.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

after Gwendolyn Brooks

She’s got a hundred & two temperature,

delivery room nurses said. You’re

gonna live, though—long enough

to know you’re going

to go as quickly as you came, gonna

make your mother swear by you, going to

shake your Bible with red-tipped nails

before you vanish

into Chicago South Side skies that bleed—

not like watercolor, not like a wound, not

like a fat, bitten plum—not necessarily.

No, not necessarily.

Nothing that precious or predictable. Speak

nicely to others & they will nicely

speak to you, your mother said.

No, not so, you said fairly

close to the end. No time to wait for mother’s

ride home or for saviors, coming soon.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

Charleston, South Carolina

1.

“What does it mean to see a black church burn?”

bear’s breech, bluestar

and, furthermore, I buried my sister

hushed, white roses

&, furthermore, I buried my lover

and, anyway, he never said, “forgive”

June-yanked yarrow

barrenwort creeps

Mary, don’t you weep, oh, Mary

2.

and, furthermore, we buried our mother

bugbane, bee balm

“What does it mean to see a black church burn?”

up Calhoun Street,

up Ravenel Bridge

And who among us speaks for us all, not

me, too simple,

too soon to say

just what I feel when black churches

3.

burn, the door closing, burn, & furthermore,

black-eyed Susan

And, furthermore, we buried our father

June-snatched yarrow

hens & chickens, rosettas between rock

the hell that crept through our door of ages

Jerusalem

Sage, Lavender

Cotton, Coreopsis corners

4.

And, furthermore, I buried my grandson

Bearded Iris

What does it mean when our black blood turns? Lamb’s

Ear, Texas Sage

False Red Yucca, swat moths away, sinners

and sin. Must we always invite them in?

False Indigo

Gayfeather, Thrift

Must we always invite them in?

5.

And, furthermore, I buried my anguish

Coronation

Gold in my palms after rain, & further-

more, Violet

What does it mean when we memorize Psalms

Or “stand in the way that sinners take,” or

Umbrella Sedge

Joe-Pye Weed

Or, sparrow over sycamore

6.

Forget-me-not, Father, forget-me-not

Mother, forget

me not, Saints. For You created my in-

most being, You

knit me together in my mother’s womb

And, furthermore, I buried my husband

Bamboo, Goutweed

Evening Primrose

Mother don’t you weep, Mother, don’t

7.

moan & Plantain Lily, widen your shawl

Solomon’s Seal

before you tighten it, Come by here, Lord

Come by here, Lord

What does it mean when our suffering returns?

twofold, threefold, fourfold, ten—& if they

turn, let us shout

let us shout, Saints

What shall we shout when our suffering

8.

returns? If they can burn a cross, they can—

Lady’s Mantle

burn a church. If they can burn a church, they

can burn Coral

Bells. If they can burn Coral Bells, they can—

one bullet, two bullet, ten bullet, more

hushed white roses

Baby’s Breath, Prick-

ly Pear. I lack nothing.

9.

Blood on a church pew like Snow in Summer

Dutch Iris, Dead

Nettle, Baby’s Breath

Delphinium,

Queen Anne’s Lace. I lack

nothing. I shall not

I shall not

shovel winter

snow. No blood on pews,

nor floors, nor stairs at summer’s door.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

after Elizabeth Clark-Lewis

Candy-colored bulbs frame a girl for a holiday.

If the wicked call from the other side, she doesn’t hear. Blinds shut. Devices

blink & twitter. Before it’s too late, her mother snaps a picture—anticipates

angst & oddly angled aches, strawberry letters. “Whatevers.”

The mother will mark the photo tomorrow. Sign. Seal. “We’re all well!”

—one of the last acceptable print messages. Meanwhile, “Soup

for dinner, again?” What else? It’s winter. Herbal constellations swivel in froth. Stir.

She samples with a lean near bowing. Steam on closed eyelids.

Mothers ought to give thanks.

Simeon, she thinks instead, & then: her long-gone grandmother’s

tattered Bible, the daughter’s overdue library book

concerning States’ rights. Why’s that? She’s hardly felt

hated. X’s & O’s glow in the daughter’s palm Look

how easy, the daughter often says. She is patient with her mother. Blessed

be the child at the center of snow & flu season. She flew past

blessings long ago. So far from a little girl, really.

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona-Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Yona Harvey

after Ella Baker & Glenn Lignon

layered in black on black on white canvas

we who believe in freedom cannot rest

looking at the way we look looking forward

stepping back by way of upturned neck by way

of three steps back looking black coded by way

of black modes by way of reconstruction by way

of insurrection by way of colored fountains by way

of elected democrats or elected aristocrats

it is obvious we are a presence

though we have been discomforted

at school gates at rental offices at museum entrances

even we cannot rest who believe in freedom

we are to some an irritant an ire some tire some lot

we do not subscribe just because something comes

out of a leader’s mouth out of the mouth of a tyrant

so we are too difficult we are much too difficult

we are much too aware we are much too marked

we are all that matter to us that matter

we are the most comforting presence by way of

nod by way of pound by way of sup

we are always fashionable when we do not try

we do not try to insult except when we do

but we do not hesitate to speak of the things

about which we agree or disagree we participate

at the level of our thinking by way of our thinking

by way of our mass expression

we who believe in freedom cannot rest

where once hundreds & even thousands of we

ordinary people had taken a position—that made us—

very uncomfortable when we decided for instance

to walk rather than take the bus

from You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for LoveFind more by Yona Harvey at the library

Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.