April 5, Poem 5 - Conditional
Conditional
As the different streams having their sources in different places mingle their water in the sea, so, O Lord, the different paths which men take through different tendencies, various though they appear and crooked or straight, all lead to thee.
Swami Vivekananda (Hindu prayer, fr. an address to the Parliament of Religions – as taken from Installation on steps of Art Institute Museum)
if on the way here the man whom I asked
about the direction of Randolph and Wells
hadn’t refused to look at me; if any
of four people to whom I said Good Day
on my block last week didn’t stare back
and through me. if I didn’t always feel
so unwelcome, so black, so goddamned
honored all the time to just walk around
where others understand right to be;
if I didn’t walk around so damned tense
all the time – so ready for the wrong thing
to be said, for a punch to be thrown, if
respect, if I didn’t feel so damned black
all the time – if I didn’t just feel like
beautiful people just get ignored, all the way
from Jesus until now, then I’d not weep
into my hands at the swami’s words,
so many offerings – prayers spreading
up stairs, reds, yellows, greens, slow
moving like Mercury – like retrograde –
like my body could maybe unfurl, like
I might could un-fist and love, like
I might could make a song of the words –
the words laid bare – crisp as gunfire
and so clear, such a bell these words;
if it didn’t rain blood on the Southside,
if white wasn’t such a badge, if white
didn’t so rush to claim it, if everybody
wasn’t so busy protecting their privilege-
sheltering their young from the sun; if
war wasn’t its own hymn, crooked
and hot as a shaft of light, I could believe
the love of priests and messiahs. I could
hosanna out my bosom and sing
the words leaking up to God. I could
august. I could toll. I could genuflect,
vindicate, black, refugee,
and live.
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