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About this poet

Roger Reeves's first book, King Me, was published by Copper Canyon Press in 2013 and was awarded the 2014 Larry Levis Reading Prize and a John C. Zacharis First Book Award from Ploughshares. His second collection of poetry, On Paradise, is forthcoming from W. W. Norton. Reeves has received fellowships from Cave Canem and the National Endowment for the Arts. The recipient of a Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship and a Whiting Award, Reeves was a Hodder Fellow from 2014 to 2015 at the Lewis Center for the Arts at Princeton University. He lives in Austin, Texas.

Brazil

I will begin with braces
strung across a man’s teeth
as a downed kite might
string itself across four lanes
of a seven-lane highway
and bid a barefooted child
to wade into evening traffic
and slip. I will not focus
on the wasp at the window,
the cat’s white hair stretching
along this orange peel,
or even the train’s green breath,
its asthmatic clack
upon these arthritic tracks
that turn every head
into a cautious metronome. No,
I will not focus upon the spines
of the men walking these rails,
yelling cerveja, coca-cola, agua,
these men who bare no resemblance
to ghosts but even as they pass
disappear into motes and motes
of dust most of us are too busy
to notice falling
inside a sleeping child’s mouth.
I will focus all my attention,
now, on the man with braces,
asking me if I am a member of the CIA.
Have I come to infiltrate
the black movement.
This man whom I have peeled
two oranges for
since this train left Rio de Janeiro
and, because his hands were full,
placed each quartered wedge
in his mouth. What are you here for?
The children waiting for bottles
of water to be thrown from each car.
The bee above his head, the kites
drifting from the hills, the white puffs
of cloth, slew-footed, wading into the sky
like a wasp drunk on insecticide.
Those are suicide notes, he says, the kites.
Soon there will be gunfire,  
drugs, and dead children head-to-foot
along the paves and unpaved roads
leading in and out of this favela.
Do you have this in America?
This, meaning kites. This, meaning
children. This, meaning winter rain
unable to flow into the gutters
because of bodies lining the streets.
I think to tell him of Katrina,
but I say nothing of water-
melon vines growing around the dark
in graves from North Carolina to New Jersey,
the bomb, MOVE, the symphony
hall of atrocities in which every seat is full,
but is this the meaning of diaspora?
I come with the dead tucked in-
to my duffle, my genocides
folded into my wallet and you
come with yours and we shout
across the chasm of this train car
comparing whose dead sing louder
or more often or now.
Is this Africa: a slit trench
and a split lip, a photograph
of a police chief smoking a cigar
as the ear of a dead child catches his ash.
Why isn’t my hand
dropping these slices of orange
onto your tongue, Diaspora?
Why have I come to Brazil, Brother?
To infiltrate the black movement.

From King Me (Copper Canyon Press, 2013) by Roger Reeves. Copyright © 2013 by Roger Reeves. Used with permission of the author.

From King Me (Copper Canyon Press, 2013) by Roger Reeves. Copyright © 2013 by Roger Reeves. Used with permission of the author.

Roger Reeves

Roger Reeves

Roger Reeves's first book, King Me, was published by Copper Canyon Press in 2013 and was awarded the 2014 Larry Levis Reading Prize and a John C. Zacharis First Book Award.

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