1

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black

faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-

fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,

cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews.  They stare

across the space at me sprawling on my bunk.  I know

their dark eyes, they know mine.  I know their style,

they know mine.  I am all of them, they are all of me;

they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.



I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,

1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),

and 5 cousins.  I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece

(she sends me letters in large block print, and

her picture is the only one that smiles at me).



I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,

and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took

off and caught a freight (they say).  He's discussed each year

when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in 

the clan, he is an empty space.  My father's mother, who is 93

and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates

(and death dates) in it, always mentions him.  There is no

place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."

 

2

Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown

hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric

messages, galvanizing my genes.  Last yr/like a salmon quitting

the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birth stream/I

hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my pocket and a 

monkey on my back.  And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.

I walked barefooted in my grandmother's backyard/I smelled the 

   old

land and the woods/I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the 

   men/

I flirted with the women/I had a ball till the caps ran out

and my habit came down.  That night I looked at my grandmother

and split/my guts were screaming for junk/but I was almost 

contented/I had almost caught up with me.

(The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker's crib for a fix.)



This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when

the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk

and stare at 47 black faces across the space.  I am all of them,

they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children

to float in the space between.