And then there were

"How still could you stay if your life depended on it" -I wonder this about my antsy students daily. ---------------- "I fount it" -Is this lazyness or is this childs mind still trying to figure out past tense? ---------------- "Do you play well in the sandbox" ---------------- "Could teachers gives A's to bullies for picking on certain students?" ---------------- "I can't even afford a half-ass costume to cover my midriff"

Mother Taught Him All the Lessons He Would Ever Need One time a white girl in need of the friend called me white because I was light, because I still am, used to be, chose to fight her, beat her like her parents clearly didn’t, ground her face in dirt and rocks until she was dark as I should have been. My cousin let the fight go on Because she was my teacher at the time. Another time my father Warren Taught me to back the red Chevy up, So faded, I thought he used Kool-Aid to paint, Back it up until you hear glass. I hit up that reverse Because he was your grandfather, the one you are named after. Most times when your grandfather drove through town, he would pick up anyone, anyone walking and not driving needing a ride and possessing two legs he would smile at and help hop in and drive them where they wanted to go: never turned down anyone walking and not driving that is. One time I showed you the picture of your great, great-grandmother And you realized why you are the tone you are An...

This Meant She’s Gone I woke up in a twin bed, morning after, knowing I didn’t get laid: not enough room. I barely have enough room to keep a stack of books beside not that they would love me anyway. I’ve lost the habit of waking up mid-night and rolling over for sex. A habit lost right after becoming habit. Give me a month and a half and I break it, break you away from me, and leaving nothing to roll over. The warmth on the other foot of bed is nuzzling Georgia sun peak, like a pet I don’t want curled beside me.

"Shut up talking to me" -A gem from one of my students. Not a new quote, but worth including. ------------- "What signification lies in the doodle smiley, start, or heart? Whose face is that, what galaxy, and who depends on that rhythm?" ------------- "You don't look qualified enough to teach a rock to sink" ------------- "Believe you me" ------------- "Four years of schooling and they let me sharpen pencils in the teacher workroom"

The metanarrative language in all of Byrd’s prose poems veils the sequence of events and characters, yet I am really drawn to the poetry still. Because of the lack of punctuation, disconnected syntax & ideas, and lack of names, I as a reader want to “get” the works more than if the poetry were overt. The lack of usual details creates a desire to read the poetry at multiple angles in order to find a reading. Rather than accept this technique as a reading, I continue to try and “figure out” the poem, though I can see multiple ways in which the techniques work. So in a sense, the framing or metanarrative makes me work twice as hard, but still entertains.

Forms In seventy-two, future years, not past, my kids will be able to look up my census data, 2010, and determine their father was Black, African Am., Negro. But what were his great grandparents? Property, tenant farmer, unaccounted? There's some white back there. And Native American. But not enough for a scholarship, land, or denial of Affirmative Action. The 6 question form won't let me forget a past I've only read.

Talk about sadness. Talk about finding out Power Rangers was dubbed and the Green Ranger was actually a martial artist. Talk about finding out what Dubs are, cementing your black card, and never finding wet cement to sign. I never leave a mark. I leave marks everywhere. Mark Twain offends me with his rampant use of slurs, though I appreciate the realism. “The Mysterious Stranger” is the only work I will never lose. I can’t even finish the book a second time because the premise freaks me, makes it hard to sleep. Talk about falling asleep only to realize thought may never end; your conscious is a treadmill plugged in and running. What’s the point of one more day if you have eternity in soul? Let’s talk.

(A BRITTLE DAY PASSED BY) Despite his attempt at rewriting the opening scene her Georgian film took a tragic welcome. She had almost reached the vanishing point when he broke. And then there was a tremor in his chest and he pointed at nothing to say there is something broken and she loved him. There. --------------- Upon deciding to never date again, she compiled her lists of 8th grade nevers, realizing she would never do much at this rate. She graduated and never never did anything again. There. It’s written and true. Do you have something for me to do? I should have been born somewhere else. I never.

On finally making it to the end she said Can you see a dog jumping through a hoop of ribbons? Byrd pg. 70 ---------------- On asking if she will make it she said She’ll be pregnant before she graduates. Once the mystery came to light he asked was the foot leaving Eden or entering? After finally making it to the end he said I didn’t write this autobiography, but isn’t it me?

"I'm never going to date again." -8th grade outburst upon being broken up with. ------------- "Atleast I swam away from the boat to pee. Everyone else just climbed down the ladder." ------------- "The NAACP is the reason he's down there" ------------- "My teachers convinced me not to run on the playground by telling stories of kids falling and impaling themselves with woodchips." ------------- "Black, African Am., Negro" -Even then 2010 Census finds a way to offend me.

Sand as Dollar Before this sand dollar, there were photographs of them, round beige disks. Big brother saw your smile, wide eyes and this meant confidence in your find. The friend saw upside down jellyfish, holes and no crabs; this was morbid, no need for further survey of beach or ocean floor because dollar was whole and clean. Mission complete. The disk was housing, unknowing. When the dollar came home crumbled, mere quarters and dimes in hand, worthless and unpieced, what explanation could be given aside from sibling jealousy? Aside from BMWs for graduation, your Camry is just right.

Finding your father’s paper porn isn’t like beating him at Battleship or forcibly taking over cutting the grass every Saturday morning. It’s awkward excitement, resorting to using your dad’s condom stash, only to realize he’s bigger than you— would I prefer it any other way , finding a porn without the case and having to watch it to find out your preferences differ— I’d prefer it no other way — I don’t know what I was looking for, snooping through my father’s room. I think I wanted to watch my mother’s leftovers wash away though I never saw them leave, never saw their empty spaces, but nowadays, the closet is full, the dresser is full, so Dad went metro and doubled his wardrobe or my eyes are jokers. I think you usually throw jokers out for card games and I am better off blind. Then I couldn’t see my mother as gone.

I really admire two small features of “Parenthetical,” the first being the influence of color. Usually, when a poem doesn’t explicitly state specific colors, I imagine my own colors into and for the scene, but in Jordan’s poem, the colors white and red receive notice, as does darkness, smoke, and a streetlamp. This minute inclusion forced me to imagine the poem in black and white with random red, grey, and pale orange. The scenery of the poem became very cinematic for me, but I enjoyed this restriction of colors, even if it was only in my head. The restriction of colors leads me to the other facet of the poem that I admire, the imprisonment of the speaker between the club and window across the street. As a reader, I felt imprisoned by specific colors and scenes, but the speaker also feels this same oppression between the club and window, silence and deafening noise, memory and the present. Though all poems require certain specificity, the limited scenery of “Parenthetical” really made ...

"dipping your digits..." -My friend Caroline ------------- "The Texas sun was like that. Like a body asleep beside you." -Sandra Cisneros ------------- "Can you sell this item?" -The fifth question on a recent application I filled out. I'm not sure what the "item" is. I couldn't figure out if I was selling myself, selling my selling ability, or selling the product. ------------- "You look like a butt pirate" ------------- "What type of person gives a blowjob in a church?"