Almost Dead Ancestors
I have been the eternal promise, yet
not once was I what had been promised. First,
I was supposed to be the spawn of evil
itself. Shame, evil never really matched
my skin tone. I used to believe in things
too: tooth fairy, rabbits that lay eggs, fat man
entering my house at night all dressed in red,
but there are things not even kids should know
about. True evil, a god that kills the sons
of disbelievers. It’s in the Bible, I read
it once, it’s hard to concentrate with all
the poison dripping from the skin thin rice
paper. I’d rather have it rolled, smoked in
to fun, but I don’t want lies blemishing
my lips. Later I was supposed to be
forgotten, but I kept on showing up,
despite everyone’s contempt. Last time I was
there, a cadaver was asleep, sheets of
the purest white, they fed and sang to him.
The corpse was me, somehow. My future? My
fears wrapped in disintegrating flesh?
I was the promise of insensibility,
yet I was shaking. Once I’d known that dead
man lying on a bed. He said he hated blacks. I’m
at least café-au-lait (don’t mind the blue-
green eyes). Back then I felt so far away,
an interstate apart from him, although
he was one palm away on the church bench.
The living corpse called my name, but I
had the same love for him I have for the
first maggot yet to eat my eyes. I guess
my passport straight to hell is really already
all stamped and signed. Was I supposed to be
the devil? I saw my reflection in
the mirror: I am missing a tail and
two horns. Oh well, I’m just the promise still.
Lépido.
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