Gradual Transformations
Deonte Osayande
My name becomes a disguise, makes
many transformations
out of me. To some it says immigrant, others
say ghetto, most can't pronounce it. Instead
they say crow, spade, monkey, tar baby, jungle
bunny. My first track coach pairs me against Marcel, dog
eat dog. Bark versus bite. He be beagle, I remain
rabid unless around her. She is the black girl, my girlfriend
the tortoise. I'm her hare, growing, following
her movements in every race. She doesn't lose, just
finishes significantly later than everyone else. Someone asks
if the black girl knows she has already been beaten, as if
the black girl hasn't always survived beatings. Weeks later
the two of you go skating around the corner from her home
in the suburbs. Her neighbor's dog gets loose and she runs
half a block away faster than you've ever seen. After this
burst of speed you think back to how she made the crowd
wait and watch at the track meet. Years later Marcel is in the casino
waving when he sees you. What are the odds? You can tell
he doesn't remember anything he said to you in the past. You are still
running. The black girl is still running. He is still running.
Dinner Discussions
Deonte Osayande
My aquarium breathed family enjoys
cooking crab legs. I crawl into my corner
of the house during many gatherings, eating lemons
like apples, familiar with the taste of bitterness. My teeth
sizzle every time although I don't flinch
as if my skin was thick. I know how my words can be enough
to produce gunfire. Another day, another grand jury, another
indictment. It doesn't even come up in dinner discussions
much anymore. The conversation shifts, some cousins
start fishing for compliments. I reel back my insecurities,
thankful that I'm a rabbit's foot. Not currently facing
police who would show up here because they were called, called
because they aren't here for us. Everywhere
inside the fish tank there are reflections
looking ready to consume who they mirror.
Demons
Deonte Osayande
I don't often dance, music is my guilty
pleasure. What I listen to is the key
to the memories I lock out, demons yet to be
exorcised. Somewhere there's a household
built with Jenga blocks. There is a marriage
held up by a support beam of twigs. There's a wife
who I haven't spoken to in years, keeping me
behind a lock and key her husband can never open. I'm the skeleton
in their basement closet and all because I didn't know
about him doesn't mean I'm innocent. I get having
demons. Somewhere there's a house
full of people I haven't talked to in years.
In a way I am still there, haunting them. It's not
what I mean to do. I try to move on from it but when I look
down at my feet, there are so many locks.
