When I Die

I hope to die in the fading sunlight of a Sunday, wrapped in a lover’s arms

Watching some movie that over glorifies southern Black life

Rattling off an endless list of task

Our child                                                                                                    needs to be called

The food                                                                                                                    put away

The cat                                                                                                                  played with

Our bed                                                                                                                            made

PG&E                                                                                                                               paid

Cards                                                                                                                              signed

And on

And on

And on

Out of vanity, I wish the tongues of my critiques fall from their mouths

Writhe and rot on the floor

Their mouths left permanently open

Left to lament the death of the family or dignity or ideas of wholesomeness

Or whatever bourgeois idea I have helped to set ablaze in the shadow of god

My tasks, of which I hope there are many laying scattered, tended to.

And the community of revolutionaries to which I belong left celebrating

Screaming joy songs at the sky with my laughter echoing in their forever dance

I pray my projects for black and gay self-empowerment are not left to wither

That the beautiful men and womyn I knew on the boulevard are not left cold

I desire to see my mother one last time

If only in the glance I give to an image of her on that morning

Or in my mind’s eye during a long shower where I mourn her life

And maybe her song will play on the radio

Granting me one sweet stroll through my subconscious

Her hands

Hair

Gowns

Lips and belly

All behind the arms she used to pull me into her

Please don’t allow anyone to read this poem

Or any verse I wrote while under the influence of lust or sympathy

Say nothing of my writing directly

Mention it in passing or pay it no mind

Say things like “oh and he wrote as good as he cooked”

And I hope that when I die

Some black boy

With my same trembling voice

Knows I existed, burns to bring revolution

And too dreams of being free

3 thoughts on “When I Die

  1. I desire to see my mother one last time…If only in the glance I give to an image of her on that morning…Or in my mind’s eye during a long shower where I mourn her life

    And maybe her song will play on the radio…Granting me one sweet stroll through my subconscious…Her hands…Hair…Gowns…Lips and belly

    All behind the arms she used to pull me into her …. […]

    My mother would LOVE this passage! As do I.

    Very moving.

  2. god DAMN but that’s beautiful! Thank you for this Crunch, it honestly made my night. Your bravery and lyricism inspire me, both and separately.

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