Carnival Pictures

I wonder,

in this country

am I the only one

holding carnival pictures

as evidence of identity,

in this feast of flesh

we call America,

where Grandfathers

ate Grandmothers' peoples

up for dinner

with a satisfying belch

in the name of expansion?

Worn images

of women

who gave birth

and gave birth

and gave birth

when so many

of the children

died --

in their arms

in fields

on streets

with bottles in their hands.

Heavy trails

on their faces

my grandmothers' mothers

both bound in their frames

above my TV

exhaustion under her laughter

exhaustion under her straight gaze

with men with no names

alone.

Did you dream me

my luxury

of complaining about nothing,

complaining when

my children are well

their bellies full?

Of a man who

stayed around

long enough

to find fault with?

Of sometimes passing

for white

when that privilege is so much,

so much more than it ought to be,

yet I complain,

and get by with staring

with rocking the boat?

What unearthly case

would this be for you

this life

the life

you

gave

me,

conceived

in your wombs and in your spirits

with

sweat and imagination?

Copyright University of Nebraska Press 2002
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