NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2014 | Page 18
16
By
KWAME
DAWES
MAN
Clean-headed men, men who sit in that easy
sprawl of ownership; loose pants, bundled
fabric around the balls, jockeys so you see
the print of their dicks that have walked
through so many thick-grassed fields
chopping as if that is all a dick is made
to do; men who have ritualized the sipping
of brown liquor; men who’ve turned fool
from chasing after fresh pussy; men
full of stories about being drunk, about
how they pissed themselves on the spot;
men who know the value of a woman
who lays out his starched drill pants and softly
laundered cotton shirts; men who slap
Old Spice on their faces after a smooth
shave; men who shake their heads and say
“You don’t know nothing about what I’ve seen,
what I’ve done, what I’ve been through…”;
men who know that they are always
doing better than their sons-of-bitches
fathers who were bums, who drowned drunk
in Mississippi, who gave them nothing
but a fat thigh and a big nose, and that
hint of evil and shine in the hair; men not
scared of death but scared of dying;
men with arms still stone hard, fists
black-knuckled with scars, men who will
take you out if you try; men who know
where their pistol lies at all times;
these men, in their fedoras, their
polished shoes, the Florsheims, burnished
with patience—the layers of Kiwi,
the soft wet cloth, the waterproofing
blackening, the whip of a dry rag,
the smiling gleaming of the toe,
the smooth manliness of the sides,
the quick dab of black over the scuffs;
their Oxford socks, their gold chain,
their Lucky Stripes, their clicking lighter,
their allowance, their twenty-in-the-walletand-a-five-in-the-shoe; their permission
to be hard, cold, tough, to be just
men alone, sitting on the stoop
talking trash and feeling good.
These are the men we are talking
about. These are the men we learn
to loathe, these are the men whose sins
are legion, these are the men who kneel
at the altar, these are the men who count
the collection, these are the men who guard
the Lord, these are the Deacon men, lately
saved, these fathers of many, these silent
keepers of secrets: these are the men we praise.