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.