Thursday, December 17, 2020

Evasive Me by Marcus Jackson

Evasive Me

Of course there’s a certificate, bleeding
carbon at the creases and impressions,
detailing my metrics and lineage the night
I entered the earthly air in a new hospital
built by the intricate partnership between
Rust Belt governance, capitalism
and Christ, though I lie to people I like,
saying I was born in a garden so near
the sea that my mother—multilingual
and remarkably tall—rinsed me at the fringe
of the tide the morning after labor,
the horizon cloudless and birdless
while the sand whispered spells of protection,
depth, and solemnity upon the pair of us,
and amid this farce my dear listeners
don expressions of distrust or ire
as likely they should, faced with evasive
me, so wearied even before boyhood
by the truth that I’ve forever disallowed
my ears and my mouth any songs not made
from the water, dirt, wind, salt, and fire
of American manipulation.

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