i.
O Erou the kids on the block croon asking
where you from and Erou’s got a story
for every day of the week:
Monday his father brushed him
like a daydream from
the corner of his eye
Tuesday his mother stayed out in the sun
singing Hello, Stranger till
she swelled with his pitch:
Hello, Erou, my baby
in the major key
Wednesday he swam up out of the Atlantic,
brushed off his gills and walked
right up to Coney Island Beach
Thursday the gods of the clubs on Jamaica,
the jerk chicken spots and the late-night
pizza joints threw off their clothes one night
and danced till he dropped
from one of their faces, a boy-
shaped droplet of sweat
Friday his Converse came first, his mother
set them in the garden and he grew up out
of them like a weed: Erou
of the laced-up kicks
Saturday his father sat with a dinner of whiskey
and sunflower seeds, spat one out and
here’s Erou, kernelled, uncracked on the kitchen tile
Sunday Erou came right outta the sky,
didn’t you see it? Ten years ago today Erou’s Comet
set fire to his mama’s roof as he came down
I.
Gap-toothed Erou,
Erou of the forked tongue
speaking outta both sides of his mouth
believer of nothing but his own reflection
Erou born in the county of Kings
raised in the lap of Queens
sitting on the throne of his mama’s front stoop
Isn’t this how an Erou begins?
II.
Erou without prophecies
but not without precedent, no,
on the day of his birth,
his mother a cloud, his father a lightning grin, and he a
(hushed)
cry before the thunder
Erou the almost
the first touches
of rain
III.
Innocent Erou of the wordless bluster, howl
of the strays, bray and bark
and Lazarus-blare to wake the dead,
they said, watching
the open mouth like a hollow a
breach in the earth
Erou Avernus whose name the dead pass through
IV.
Erou a wandering,
a bumbling,
a blundering,
a babbling
child with hands everywhere:
throw pillows on the couch,
bowl of caramel candies,
lit candles,
glass picture frames,
Erou of the everything
Erou in the world with his want
V.
Erou of the house of spite
Erou of the creases in his father’s forehead
the drink on his father’s tongue
the tongue stilled whiskey-soured and iced
Erou fed from his father’s silence
Erou son of the shadow
beneath his father’s lip
VI.
Erou of the school of Can’t Tell Me Nothing, already knows
what he needs to know:
Street-smart Erou of the words to the wise—
got a hard head but soft behind
is what his laughing mother calls it,
is what his wife will call it
years later when it will sound like a threat
from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library
Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.