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The Poetry of Hoke S. Glover III (Bro. Yao)

Winter

In its first moments, a gust of wind,

my grandfather’s long johns, pockmarked,


a crow swims through my dreams,

calls my name with disappointment


There's a bottle of Jack Daniel's almost

full, a thousand trees naked who say


they dreamed of me last night, there's

collard greens frosted cold soft as


my grandmother's, melt on your tongue

like snow. A good man dreams of heaven


and knows he's going there, a bad man

gambles: he puts his lip to whiskey; he


stares into the cold glass frosted by

December and says his name


like a talisman, a cold coin he finds on the street

thinking he is lucky. What will I tell my moon


deep in the cold, door clicking

in another room. Moving quietly among


the soft fabrics of my past, last Christmas'

gifts, a never worn sweater, last days of fall


a fireplace, a chord of wood, sparks

into the dark room snuggling into January's


question to the coming spring, the leaves

gone. Coming home bruised and battered


like a weathered Bible, a testimony too many

have put their hands to, wave hands like clouds


step slowly from left to right, let the chi

rise to the crown of your head, dream of


a country who loves you, a country who

can't seem to say your name right, night


falling outside your window, the dark

seems to contract around your head


it's cold seeping into your body, but

you know warmth through it, sleep


that gives rest, you rise in the morning

the world is covered white, you dream again.


Mothers singing somewhere close by

trembling the night, a man is humbled


by his dreams knows them in the center

of winter. The dust on him tells him


he is special, aged like empty rooms,

silent like January’s forest, where


each footstep begins his music

crackling underneath his steps.

___ Night

 

Knoxville

Is a confession, a city

I do not know.

 

Driving through

Its black hills  

Is real name or shape

The hips of fine

Women who live there

With my eyes.

Dusk,

Everything turns 

Into shadows.

 

Tree’s afros above

The window line.

 

 

Press on

 

Through night dark

Like sleep, the car

Sucks in silence.

 

My uncle’s pistol

Is waiting in Nashville.

 

Sometimes it glows

Hot.  My grandfather

 

Walks slowly through

The house pacing.

 

The living room creak

Floorboard holler

 

China cabinet rattles.

 

I will sleep on the couch

With a blanket knitted

By Granny. 

 

Morning

 

The parlor will fill.

 

Voices

 

 

Like the four cylinder’s yell

 

Climbing

 

The last stretch

Of mountains. 

 

 

We’re almost home. ___

6/20/2024


Hoke S. Glover III (Bro. Yao) is a poet and writer living in Maryland. He is the author of One Shoe Marching Towards Heaven (Africa World Press, 2019), Inheritance (Willow Books, 2017), and co-author of Crazy as Hell: The Best Little Guide to Black History (W.W. Norton, 2024).





 

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