What was there is no longer there:
Not the blood running its wires of flame through the whole length
Not the memories, the texts written in the language of the flat hills
No, not the memories, the porch swing and the father crying
The genteel and elegant aunt bleeding out on the highway
(Too black for the white ambulance to pick up)
Who had sent back lacquered plates from China
Who had given away her best ivory comb that one time she was angry
Not the muscles, the ones the white girls longed to touch
But must not (for your mother warned
You would be lynched in that all-white town where you grew up—
The one, the only good black boy)
All that is gone—
The muscles running, the baseball flying into your mitt
The hand that laid itself over my heart and saved me
The eyes that held the long gold tunnel I believed in
The restrained hand in love and in anger
The holding back
The taut holding
Bruce Derricotte, June 22, 1928-June 21, 2011
[Toi Derricotte {1941- } ‘Elegy for my Husband’, from “i”]
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