POETRY BY RAPHAEL JENKINS

ON WHITENESS JOGGING THROUGH THE HOOD

that sunshine in your cheekbones

says the wine soured from our crimson

seepages don’t taste like the rape it is, unless

it does, & you prefer your libations scratching

& screaming down your throat. In which case

it is reasonable to reckon you delight in

chucking bleach-soaked breadcrumbs at black

swans to lure them from their sprawling nests. I bet

you piss your pleated pants planning pumpkin-spiced

karaoke clubs, boutique spin classes, gluten-free

juice bars & vegan-soul-food-tapas spots—where mixologists

have replaced our bartenders, & they pour handcrafted

artisan cocktails instead of drinks we’ve tongued

before. & the jukeboxes only play chameleon-music instead

of our favorite hood-rat-anthems, & they only take Visa

which is Accepted Everywhere, like I wish my skin was,

maybe then I wouldn’t have a target stitched to my temple

because my body is the night sky & my hair is a tangled

map only the creator could’ve drawn. When I was

a shorty, more kneecaps than know-how, to spot a

pink toe in this part of town, who didn’t wear a badge, was

to experience a full moon from a windowless basement

but these days, Tom & Jane can be found round two AM ordering

fried eggs & rye toast in the 24/7 diner at the intersection of

no street lights & the occasional murder, & word is,

they got that ramshackle heap over on Cardoni—where

that girl’s light got eaten—for a steal, but they failed

in trying to scrub her out from the floor boards, so

they stained the whole thing red before laying a garden

over her bones scattered about the yard, & roping

two tire swings on one of the few remaining trees

folks hadn’t yet associated with being a nigger, &

truth is, part of me wants to dunk my feet into

my grass-cutting sneakers, huff my years of thickening

to catch up with you jogging down this boulevard built

by black hands, & pick your brain with questions you’d

probably deem immaterial like:

why come to the neighborhood your father wouldn’t

have pissed on, even if he were trapped in one of the houses set ablaze

by his kin, & why is it now okay to spread roots in soil what

back in the day was just a good place to stash your bastards, & will you

salve the bleedings of those forced here before you starve us

out, or might you consider saving room for Big Mama, Coco,

RayRay, Sammy, Velma, Aunt Pam, the corner store, the diner where

my parents met, & the barbershop I’ve gone to my whole life, or were

you planning to put your whole foods there?

we have so many fucking questions for you & while

you likely hoped this would be yet another notch

in your belt, another colony, another instance of saving savages

from themselves to the benefit of your posterity, some of us

savages are unwilling to burn silently because this is our home

& we simply ask that when you water the flowers we leave

behind, you don’t use the vinegar your parents kept under the

sink, & when you pass on our lawfully stolen property to your

young, be sure to let them know they are inheriting a diamond

made of tears, unearthed from soil familiar with having

its natives    swallowed

Raphael prefers to go by Ralph, as he feels it suits him better, and he’s heard every Ninja Turtle joke ever uttered. He is a native of Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Kentucky with his Boo-thang and their four-year-old boy. He is a chef by day and an essayist, poet, screenwriter in his dreams. He, like Issa Rae, is rooting for everybody Black. His work has been featured (or is forthcoming) on his mama’s fridge, his close friends’ inboxes, Hobart (after dark), 3 Elements Review, HASH Journal, Frontier Poetry, Flypaper Lit, and All Guts No Glory.

Follow him on Twitter & Instagram: @RALPHEEBOI

Email him: ralpheeboiwrites@gmail.com