POETRY

Slingshots for Cowboy Astronauts

By Ariana Francesca Thomas     VOLUME 54.3

Honorable Mention for the 2021 Auburn Witness Poetry Prize judged by Jericho Brown
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My son wants to become a Cowboy Astronaut.
I couldn’t be more relieved.
Considering my failed launch attempts at sonnets,
to sonic boom him into a different dimension
spinning on turntables to a Black boy’s heartbeat.
A land where asphalt scrapes his sneaks
and not his cheeks.

He wants to ride a horse across a Milky Way sky.
      “One that flies, Mommie!”
      “One that beats off all the bad guys
      and never dies, Mommie!”

How can you not see what I see?

Three years old with ancient daydreams.
Enough confidence to tame Pegasus,
convinced of his own divinity.

Do you not know,
we raise our sons with dignity, too?

Imagination and integrity,
well-groomed in our intentions.

Our boys
earn their badge of honor
      just like yours.
Our floors
littered with balls, and blocks, and dinosaurs
      just like yours.
Our doors
swing open to father-son celebrations.

I wish you could understand the way
Black fathers raise their sons.
There is no metaphor for that embrace.
No simile to symbolize the smiles on our face
when everybody makes it home, safe.
every.     single.     day.

This is ritual, in a Black home,
the zodiac of our faith.
As common as trucks and trains
and trips to outer space.

On Saturdays, sheets rotate from forts
to sailboats to superhero capes.
Different skin, same play.

As mothers, we marvel, bake, pray,
laugh at the kitchen comedian
hyper-blasting to infinity,
cowboy hat, boots and big-boy briefs.
Pouring all we got into these little men,
whispering protection and Godspeed.

Tell me,
where is the difference?
What makes our sons Goliath in your eyes?

Supergiants for slaughter . . . 

Did you ever consider,
their mothers make slingshots, too?

Knowing there are monsters,
beyond bedroom blinds, much bigger
than those beneath his bed.
Terrestrial life, looking to eclipse his starlight,
blackhole his potential with twenty-five-to-life.

All for a spaceship taillight
      on the wrong back road home,
or a hoodie and sweet tea
      on the wrong back road home,
or breathing Brown and Black
      on the wrong back road home.

Mothers of cowboys with galactic dreams,
do you see now?

The way you cradle his cheeks in your palm.
A prayer.
The way you pull him into you each and every night.
A promise.

That try as we might, are blasphemous
to bless Black boys with on this planet.

We are mothers too, got dammit.

Birthing shooting stars,
collecting every breath and dime
catapulting the sum toward the Sun.
Our sons.

My son
already knows this crater is not a cradle.
Too much gravity for buffalo solar flares, like He.
Mounting barebacked liberty, stars on his vest,
fingers entwined in his mother’s handmade sling.
He chooses, instead,
to gallop the galaxies.


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ARIANA FRANCESCA THOMAS is a poet of the Deep South, born and raised in Jonesboro, Georgia. With roots as a performance poet, Ariana has been featured at The Kennedy Center, The National Black Arts Festival, on America’s Next Top Model, and other international stages, recordings, and compilations. Ariana is also a Queens University of Charlotte MFA candidate and Watering Hole Poetry Fellow. Her work is published or forthcoming in Netflix’s Strong Black Lead, Burrow Press, and Jelly Bucket Magazine. Connect with her on IG/TW @arifrancesca and arifrancesca.com.


VOLUME 54.3