I’ve been broken
boy turned to drink
left to rust family-damp
with prayer I wish
he would just stop
digging in
graveyards.
We don’t bury the dead.
We remember the sky
likes to fall
down the throat.
We call it breath
forget its miracle.
My uncle says
two tears in a bucket
mother fuck it wants to
drink
to life give it back
to his god.
I was born
with a mouth open
to the ground for it likes
our wounds.
A family of deep drinkers.
Our stolen bodies
belly their thieves.
Our ancestors echo
their pain -ful nights.
But does He listen?
Some prayers sink
right into the ground.
Maybe that’s why—
We listen in the long procession.
We sway to the jazz funeral.
We wipe our brow
with amen.
Did I mention how underneath
our graves there are no bones
to consider?
Only our blood is at play.
Bernardo Wade is from New Orleans, but as of now, writes poems at the MFA program of IU-Bloomington.
