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).