I’ll Fly Away
The crows are back.
Only this time, they are after more
than last night’s leftover dog kibble.
They are after me.
I see them in the trees.
Gathering by twos on the slope.
Watching me, watching them
from the comfort of my patio chair.
I am ready this time. Let them come,
flapping their glossy black wings that
never seem to protect anything.
Disney loved crows.
Those gawking
eye-poppin’
feet-shufflin’
jazz-sangin’
Dumbo-lovin’
crows.
I am tired of tryin’
to forget the blackness
of things so I can fit.
So I can fit, I stand
poised and ready for the
big flapping bird coming
toward me. To warn, to
tell me a story, maybe to
gloat over my distress.
I am tired of feeling small
at all the wrong times; of being
afraid to write because I might
lose something or someone.
I am tired of worrying
that my people,
Black people,
might be in a state of
reverse evolution.
But I forgot.
I am not supposed to be Black anymore.
African-American is my new given name,
even though I know nothing of Africa.
I went to the Bahamas once. Funny,
how most of the men looked like my
father. My uncle. Does that make me a
Bahamian-American? And what about
my second great-grandfather?
Does his roots make me a
Black Irish-American in the
truest sense of the word?
Why can’t I just be
a plain old American-American,
without the cumbersome burden of
being branded with a name
that says nothing about me?
Nothing about my truth.
I don’t know.
And I don’t know why I’m crying.
So today, I am a colored Negro
cussin’ at the crows in the trees
who happen to be black like me.
Swooping down on me. Wanting
to eliminate me.
But when that crow finally reached me,
I grabbed it by the neck and forced a lit
cherry bomb down its throat. And waited.
Didn’t take long before it exploded. Only
it wasn’t a mass of blood and feathers
as I had expected.
A brilliant orange Bird of Paradise
with emerald green leaves emerged
from where the throat used to be.
What had been blood was now turning
into specks of gold and silver.
The Bird of Paradise landed right
at my feet, planting itself into
the earth as it plowed through the
concrete patio.
Not of this world, it seemed to say.
Not of this world.
Ignoring my presence, another crow
flew down to examine the plant. For
some unknown reason, I wanted nothing
more than to reach down and touch it.
It trembled as I moved closer, but did
not fly away. Fly, fly away, oh glory.
Stroking its head, I felt it relax
beneath my touch, wondering if that
is all I really am: A frightened little bird.
I want to fly like the crows
Fly, fly away, oh glory
I am not of this
world
not of this world.
