The protestations
— the kicking and screaming —
where did we think horsehairs
came from
how do you get chicken soup
if not from a chicken
what did we really think
of this reality thing
at night, unguarded
in our heart of hearts
at the poker game,
hurtling in the dark
do we bet on ourselves
as Americans
water and blood,
and skin and porosities and bloomy smells
from closeness, from love,
what did we think bodies were made of
if not bodies that touch and hold,
that tremble, improvise endless encounters until they
don’t you don’t
go down a dark alley lightly
even if you are stupid, or American
you go to the Blues
straight-up, all-American art
lugging lowdown bad news
you moan and groan
knowing reality is your dance partner
not asking who leads
you begin to play with woe
compete, restate, elaborate,
find the slinky horn, mockery,
human pulse in the drum beat
tragedy is to be stuck in a single mode
and joy improvisational — all elegance,
meditation, intentional
“Joy is not for the faint of heart,”
says Robin Coste Lewis, riffing on Clifton
as I riff on Albert Murray, my mother,
Getting old is not for babies.