Ode to the Dandelion

And ain’t that like a rose?

 

Always getting what she wants.

The uninvited belle of the ball,

rearing her gorgeous head,

all prickly, pretty, pitiful, painful, n’shit,

to lay claim to every eye and heart.

 

And ain’t that like a rose?

 

Colonizer of urban soil, taking up space,

here to gentrify the concrete forest.

The ally that wants all the attention,

want all the credit for finding rich soil

under cement desert.

 

And what of the dandelion?

 

The flower that the rest of the garden

will call a weed behind its back.

What of the roots that swim through cracked granite,

and stand under the stampede of poets

who marvel and beat their quills into fettered vanes

writing of privileged roses

but ignoring the coalescent bouquet

of “find-a-way-or-make-one”?

 

What of the dandelion

who dares dream in the face of death,

and under gentlest breeze,

blow a diaspora

of wishes

for an offspring’s better inheritance?

 

Staring down the eye of a nozzle

awaiting chemical warfare, at best

or the violent plucking from home, at worst

to make room for the good grass

yet still have the audacity to mimic

the sun’s shine?

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The Poet Reconsiders His Views on Having No Children

The morning after police unload a clip of fears into a black body until it oozes a bedtime story that never ends, but is stuck in a continuous loop; & after I spend the night in a hotel bed, body curled into a question mark, cursing God for this body that seems only to be read as [caps lock] & [shift 1], a loud exclamation in need of silencing; & after I wake up to a sun with no recollection of the sons burned out in its absence, I find myself in the breakfast buffet, grateful for another day above dirt, if only to experience the gourmet cuisine that is powdered eggs & absurdly cheap bacon. And that’s when I see him: black boy, all [caps lock] & [shift 1], wandering the small lobby with chanting, eggs & bacon, eggs & bacon, eggs & bacon. & nothing carries more importance, more urgency, more heeding attention than this black boy & his quest for breakfast. Our eyes meet, & I remember what it means to be without care or rules about decorum, or speaking too loudly, or wandering so freely. If only for a moment, the only things that matter are eggs & bacon.

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Gabriel is a poet, musician, and scholar (in that order). He’s (supposed) to be working on his PhD, but instead spends his time writing poems, coaching CUPSI teams, arguing about why J. Cole is the coldest, and watching way too much TV. Although he’s never without an opinion, lately he’s been doing more listening than speaking. He likes it this way. Its less exhausting.