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Variations of a River: a golden shovel for ferguson

By F. Douglas Brown Of Rivers: A Chapbook

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for Michael Brown / after Langston Hughes / after Terrance Hayes

1.

       "To fling my arms wide / In someplace of the sun / To whirl and to dance /
       Till the white day is done / Then rest at cool evening beneath a tall tree /
       While night comes on gently / Dark like me / That is my dream!"
                                       —LANGSTON HUGHES, "Dream Variations,"

To the east, my river forms,
Fling-s from late summer blood, from
My dome to home. My
Arms can't break my fall, so this
Wide street holds my body longer than it should.

In another time, this might be
Some-thing as common as
Place-mats. In another time, this display
Of my body might find wind, or
The reef, or simply sink. But hours and hours of
Sun and sidewalk, my river can only cling

To camera. Waves of wetness
Whirl and lick the yellow radius,
And then anger forms, and then voices spread
To me and bounce, a sound better to
Dance and shake to than to sleep:

            I stand up with my hands up
            I put up, my hands up
            Then I'm spinnin' all my hands up

Till the moment shatters through me, I'm
The fool in flip-flops, a red cap, and
White socks. My hands full of the
Day I steal from a store. That dirt
Is mine to own. Pops says, what's
Done is gon' get you one day, son. But

Then:— and now:— me at
Rest, watching my dark flow lurk about.
At least they could cover me. The summer night is
Cool-er than some think, chocolate
Evening frigid in red and blue. But
Beneath this place, this home of mine,
A small trickle of me is left, a
Tall tale of who I is remains: mountain,
Tree, gentle giant high as high water can get

While the dam is on lock. Let this
Night take me and not the man who
Comes here, scared and ready to put
On a shield to spray black bodies down.
Gently—if I gotta go, let it be the

Dark-ness my eyes got, cherry
Like with a pit of apology. Blood leaving
Me, wandering back to

That place where I first believed.
Is that you, dear Lord, or you, sweet mama? Tell
My homies don't be drawn to the current of a 40. Avoid the
Dream of this slow-moving river.

2.

       "To fling my arms wide / In the face of the sun, / Dance! Whirl! Whirl! Till
       the quick day is done. / Rest at pale evening . . . / A tall, slim tree . . . /
       Night coming tenderly / Black like me."
                                       —LANGSTON HUGHES, "Dream Variations

This singing to-
0; this swaying, fling-
ing jazz and gospel: my
poetry, my arms
open wide

for you, big boy. In-
sert my words into the
defeat of your eyes and face.
The foolishness of
a boy is just that—: yet the-
y steal the sun

out of you and take any dance
you have left. I wish for whirl
and rejoicing, but the dusk is a whirl

tempting you till
morning becomes the
mourning of black souls. How quick
can I steady your day
with a word, with th-is
lingering music? The blues done

got you now. Rest
here. Lay down the law at
the crease of my poems, not the pale
promise of a dying justice. Evening

is a heavy log moving steadily toward a-
nger, drifting towards the last words a tall
boy might float down a slim
river. I have carved hymns into a tree

before. I have seen the night
arbor offer us nothing but ropes. This coming
age is that discordant. This age is not tenderly

embracing our bodies, but dear son, your black
body has a lyric for the moonlight like
an aria, like an orchestrated couplet, like me.

F. DOUGLAS BROWN of Los Angeles is the 2013 Cave Canem Poetry Prize recipient for Zero to Three. Brown, an educator for over 20 years, teaches English at Loyola High School of Los Angeles, an all-boys Jesuit school. He is both a Cave Canem and Kundiman fellow. His poems have appeared in Virginia Quarterly Review, The Sugar House Review, Cura Magazine, Muzzle Magazine, Transfer Magazine, and Santa Clara Review. When he is not teaching, writing, or with his two children, Isaiah and Olivia, he is busy DJ'ing in the greater Los Angeles area.