February 2013
Poetry
Holy Rollers at BB King’s
for Malik Izaak
I watched him build a wall
watched him build a revival tent
my son with his own breath
a bobblehead nodder
his eyes espresso with a glob of cream
did amaze me
his arms did amaze me flex and point
a black maestro the Itzhak Pearlman
he’s middle named for
and that curled trini mouth
wild almost menacing
make-some-noise-some-muther-fuckin-noise-we-in-new-york
his voice did amaze me
but it was the ones who screamed
I watched them become cartoonish and offkilter
rigid in their shins
voice thin and winey
hollow as bajan coins
I watched my son imbue them
with his hip-hop moonshine
they drunk holy rollers rising up to touch him
he my son revival preacher
his flock copper soldiers
who had just received the christ.