2 poems by Luther Hughes
What Goes Around, Stays
An online archive shows a list of pictures of African-Americans who were lynched. In addition, the list also has the name of the person pictured, the date, and the location of the lynching. Some entries have no name, date, or location.
Spilled from a tree branch, Unknown vanishes.
A wick of light lingers where
the mouth once sprang
and snapped and bribed Unknown home.
A wick of light lingers,
slacks when the earth opens below
and snaps to bribe Unknown home,
begs Unknown to rid breath, let rest survival.
Slacking, the earth opens below,
Unknown is less known, more undone. The wind
begs Unknown to rid breath, let rest survival.
Not a single voice troubles this cruelty, this
Unknown less known, more undone. The wind,
bringer of bones, carries their music, this
silkless tradition of sorry. I,
bringer of bones, carry their music, but
who am I? Who rallies my nerves into
a silkless tradition of sorry? I
belong to many or I belong to none. I test
who I am, who rallies my nerves into
a hyphen of blood. Blood, the first language,
belongs to many or it belongs to none. I test
what I can grammar, read
a hyphen of blood--blood, the first language
of violence. I prostrate. I stroke the glorious face,
what I can grammar, read
the salt’s last glimpse of self,
of violence. I prostrate. I stroke the glorious face.
The freedom in surrendering is sometimes
the salt’s last glimpse of self.
To solder the two—death and power—is lifting.
The freedom in surrendering is sometimes
nature’s way of getting back what has been promised.
To solder the two—death and power—is lifting,
yes. But sad. The animals weep. The trees join
in nature’s way of getting back what has been promised:
spilled from a tree branch, Unknown vanishes,
is one color shy of naught and decay lingers
A wick of light lingers where
the mouth once sprang
and snapped and bribed Unknown home.
A wick of light lingers,
slacks when the earth opens below
and snaps to bribe Unknown home,
begs Unknown to rid breath, let rest survival.
Slacking, the earth opens below,
Unknown is less known, more undone. The wind
begs Unknown to rid breath, let rest survival.
Not a single voice troubles this cruelty, this
Unknown less known, more undone. The wind,
bringer of bones, carries their music, this
silkless tradition of sorry. I,
bringer of bones, carry their music, but
who am I? Who rallies my nerves into
a silkless tradition of sorry? I
belong to many or I belong to none. I test
who I am, who rallies my nerves into
a hyphen of blood. Blood, the first language,
belongs to many or it belongs to none. I test
what I can grammar, read
a hyphen of blood--blood, the first language
of violence. I prostrate. I stroke the glorious face,
what I can grammar, read
the salt’s last glimpse of self,
of violence. I prostrate. I stroke the glorious face.
The freedom in surrendering is sometimes
the salt’s last glimpse of self.
To solder the two—death and power—is lifting.
The freedom in surrendering is sometimes
nature’s way of getting back what has been promised.
To solder the two—death and power—is lifting,
yes. But sad. The animals weep. The trees join
in nature’s way of getting back what has been promised:
spilled from a tree branch, Unknown vanishes,
is one color shy of naught and decay lingers
Faith Opens the Trap Door
When, all day, I realized the dead
sparrow in the premature dandelions
marked depression, I looked through
the tree to find a half-nest perched
at the highest branch.
Looking through, I found, not only
a half-home, but the question of full
versus empty. I wanted to be full
and thought the tree stirred tiredly
of the sparrow’s labor.
Now, empty of wings, the nest
proved still. I believe a thing can be
both restless and at rest. Take the blood
the way it’s both a stream and the boat.
God is like that: swelling as he enters
from behind. Sometimes, I wear nothing
but his mercy, the myth of flesh. Then
at times, I alarm like a warning
to what’s coming—I happen.
sparrow in the premature dandelions
marked depression, I looked through
the tree to find a half-nest perched
at the highest branch.
Looking through, I found, not only
a half-home, but the question of full
versus empty. I wanted to be full
and thought the tree stirred tiredly
of the sparrow’s labor.
Now, empty of wings, the nest
proved still. I believe a thing can be
both restless and at rest. Take the blood
the way it’s both a stream and the boat.
God is like that: swelling as he enters
from behind. Sometimes, I wear nothing
but his mercy, the myth of flesh. Then
at times, I alarm like a warning
to what’s coming—I happen.
Luther Hughes is a Seattle native and author of Touched (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2018). He is the Founder/Editor-in-Chief of the Shade Journal and Associate Poetry Editor for The Offing. A Cave Canem fellow and Windy City Times Chicago: 30 Under 30 Honoree, his work has been published or is forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review, Vinyl, BOAAT, Tinderbox, The Adroit Journal, and others. Luther is currently an MFA candidate in the Writing Program at Washington University in St. Louis. You can follow him on Twitter @lutherxhughes. He thinks you are beautiful.
