DELORES JEPPS 

It seems insane now, but 

she’d be standing soaked 

in schoolday morning light, 

her loose-leaf notebook, 

flickering at the bus stop, 

and we almost trembled 

at the thought of her mouth 

filled for a moment with both 

of our short names. I don’t know 

what we saw when we saw 

her face, but at fifteen there’s 

so much left to believe in, 

that a girl with sunset 

in her eyes, with a kind smile 

and a bright blue miniskirt softly 

shading her bare thighs   really 

could be The Goddess. Even 

the gloss on her lips sighed 

Kiss me   and you’ll never 

do homework again. Some Saturdays 

my ace, Terry, would say, “Guess 

who was buying Teaberry gum 

in the drugstore on Stenton?” 

And I could see the sweet 

epiphany still stunning his eyes 

and I knew that he knew 

that I knew he knew   I knew— 

especially once summer had come, 

and the sun stayed up till we had 

nothing else to do but wish 

and wonder about fine sistas 

in flimsy culottes and those hotpants! 

James Brown screamed about: Crystal 

Berry, Diane Ramsey, Kim Graves, 

and her. This was around 1970: Vietnam 

to the left of us, Black Muslims 

to the right, big afros all over my 

Philadelphia. We had no idea 

where we were, how much history 

had come before us—how much 

cruelty, how much more dying 

was on the way. For me and Terry, 

it was a time when everything said 

maybe, and maybe being blinded 

by the beauty of a tenth grader 

was proof that, for a little while, 

we were safe from the teeth 

that keep chewing up the world. 

I’d like to commend 

my parents for keeping calm, 

for not quitting their jobs or grabbing 

guns and for never letting up 

about the amazing “so many doors 

open to good students.” I wish 

I had kissed 

Delores Jepps. I wish I could 

have some small memory of her 

warm and spicy mouth to wrap 

these hungry words around. I 

would like to have danced with her, 

to have slow-cooked to a slow song 

in her sleek, toffee arms: her body 

balanced between The Temptations 

five voices and me—a boy anointed 

with puberty, a kid with a B 

average and a cool best friend. 

I don’t think I’ve ever understood 

how lonely I am, but I was 

closer to it at fifteen because 

I didn’t know anything: my heart 

so near the surface of my skin 

I could have moved it with my hand. 

FEARLESS

Good to see the green world 

undiscouraged, the green fire 

bounding back every spring, 

and beyond the tyranny of thumbs, 

the weeds and other co-conspiring 

green genes ganging up, breaking in, 

despite small shears and kill-mowers, 

ground gougers, seed-eaters. 

Here they come, sudden as graffiti 

not there and then     there— 

naked, unhumble, unrequitedly green— 

growing as if they would be trees 

on any unmanned patch of earth, 

any sidewalk cracked, crooning 

between ties on lonesome railroad tracks. 

And moss, the shyest green citizen 

anywhere, tiptoeing the trunk 

in the damp shade of an oak. 

Clear a quick swatch of dirt 

and come back sooner than later 

to find the green friends moved in: 

their pitched tents, the first bright 

leaves hitched to the sun, new roots 

tuning the subterranean flavors, 

chlorophyll setting a feast of light. 

Is it possible     to be so glad? 

The shoots rising in spite of every plot 

against them. Every chemical 

stupidity, every burned field, all 

the Better Homes & Gardens 

finally overrun by the green will: 

the green greenness of green things 

growing greener. The mad Earth 

publishing Her many million 

murmuring unsaids. Look 

how the shade pours 

from the big branches—the ground, 

the good ground, pubic 

and sweet. The trees—who 

are they? Their stillness, that 

long silence, the never 

running away. 

EITHER WAY 

for Cornelius Eady 

Days when something grazes my shoulder. 

Sunlight, sidewalk, the shadows sharp. 

The sky holds a cold, unbreakable blue 

that says Why look  up here? 

* 

Doesn’t seem like so far back: couldn’t dance, 

scared of girls, I heard Smokey sing 

goin to a go-go with that soft crystal in his voice. 

Pictures, music caught somewhere in my head— 

I’m sick of memory: 

my younger self, still inside, 

wanting a way out of this 

who I am now: this bizzy-all-the-time, 

this—this itch middle of my back. 

* 

But who was that kid in the basement?— 

all alone with The Miracles 

moving his feet. The orange couch 

covered in plastic, black marks 

on the beige linoleum. 

* 

Something about solitude—if you can stand it— 

makes you feel wise: the voice 

in your head talking its way somewhere, 

pressing you to believe 

what it says 

and, though you can’t remember when, 

you grow into it 

or you don’t: each thought breaks 

into the next—keeps on, turns back. 

Either way, you don’t ever 

really  under 

* 

stand. Just as you get used to the snow 

shingling your hair, your idols, one 

by one, begin to leave. Their old tunes 

fill the coffee shops 

and gently bob your head. 

What is it 

* 

that your life 

forgot to mention? 

Hum a few bars you say. 

FROM DARKNESS 

Sunrise runs 

a fresh wind through the leaves. 

A night turns 

back into shadows. 

Waking up, the birds tell first light 

everything they know. 

Why do we keep killing each other? 

The Earth is a woman 

who walks in the sky, walks 

in the sky! Her legs 

so long 

you can’t even see them. 

For no reason, the morning comes 

back again, saying Come back— 

open your eyes. 

THE DOLLARS 

“I’m all in” 

Do they own you? 

Do they
make you
do whatever 

they want? Do they 

own you? Do you 

work and pay and 

work? Are you 

nervous? 

Is it hard
to sleep? Do they 

gotchu? Was it 

hard to wake
up? 

What about your hair? 

Does it keep 

happening? Are you 

doing your 

best?

Do you need 

a little 

something? 

Are you dressed?
Are you getting dressed? 

Are you almost dressed? 

What about
your hair? 

Are you tired? Are you 

hard to wake up? 

What time is it?
How about 

now? Do they
need more? Do they 

make you? Did they 

make you 

over? Are you half- 

dressed? Do they

own you? Do you

think
what you’re
supposed to?

Are you saving? Who 

are you

saving? Are you 

nervous? Are they

watching? Is it

hard?
Do you ever 

wake up?
Do they
own you? Do you

wake up 

when they
want you to? Are they

everywhere? Are you

on
time? 

How about now?

How about 

now? Do you
do the work? Did you do

the do? Did they
do you? 

Are you trying
to get
dressed?
Are you? Did you?

Will you? 

Do they

own you?

Do they still

own you? 

RIDDLE

from what we cannot hold the stars are made

--W.S. Merwin

When I saw the forest

it was late afternoon.

The sky held the color of something
almost forgotten.
I pulled off the road—

found a gravel path

sloping toward the trees.

It had to be the light
that remembered
my last Saturday at Y camp:

freshly husked corn

roasting on the cob
and all the nervous cicadas

calming down for dark.

Because I didn’t know
the handle could be hot
I burned myself
pulling a skillet from the fire

and was cursing quietly

when a blonde boy

I hadn’t met
told me to put my fingers

in his milk. It’s okay,
he said, won’t hurt as much.

I was 12, stuck on the step

between childhood and puberty

just starting to understand
that I liked being alone
and trying the riddle
of how to be a person

who might turn

into an “adult.”

At the time, I did not
have these words
but on this drive
I’d been wondering
about what I’ve become
and how I live in this country.

It all came back:
the red and white carton

with a bent straw in it
my fingers starting to blister

then the white kid’s
shy shrug of a smile.



In the forest
it was already night.