Still Life- Phillip Simmons Jr.
I am black, with ease, with easel
painting in options my dead don’t
dread. I said, I am black. but not
devoid. of color, I speak highly, so
that no matter what Miley or Kylie
comes I can still see the beauty of
the drum of my own heart beating
Our own hearts, bleeding. but not so
dumb. to confuse, bruises for Our being.
Once, I spread the red of my blood
Over the pores of a canvas. It was
Only white like a phantom, white
like dresses drawn together from
Old bedsheets, slightly white like
a candle carried through a forest, lit
Only by the white moon. But still, it
was just as bright as the base of the
red flame, snuffed out too soon. The
Omen carrying that candle burns her
wrist as white wax drips onto it, she
exists, seeking freedom on the other
side of this forest. and though she only
knew this forest, I paint her a portrait
Of a future with new choices. I poet,
so that she may hear the sound of her children’s voices.
Of course, I have other colors, this mad
world has not made me matador yet, I
do not stand, waving only red flags. still
I am black. and these blues have married
themselves to me, so that even in dreams
I still feel the weight of ocean water atop
Me, still I sleep. The water’s still but still.
the shackles keep me from being, I keep
being robbed of weightlessness. I keep
dreaming of drowning, I still see the face
of my children screaming and then mine
blue and mine breathless, and mine mindless
then I’m helpless, and then I’m stuck in this
stillness. But I’m still, and my children are yet
to be. I pray that one day they live epiphanies.
I must sleep, so that they may have better and brighter dreams.
This poem is a hope beginning to bloom,
like a succulent’s roots once contained, I
push green into my palette, hope it branches
into a history, and blooms into a bridge. I am
an avatar of okra-eaters, a persona of the world’s
best pattycake players, victories on fields of grass.
Not blue collared, so I’ll just call these collards
“greens.” green like the currency of culture,
not green to the ways we each cusp it in our grasp.
not green like leaves wilting under white puffs.
not green like envy, but more akin to Erykah’s eyes.
I have never heard of a little green lie, so meet me
in a field of green. unearth the gems of past generations
shower them in veneration and pray they blossom into our blessing.
This painting will never hang, and it remains unnamed
Its proportions are always changing, it’s portrait portrays
no one. still, I call it Our Soul.