The Zebra Goes Wild Where the Sidewalk Ends
I
Neon stripes tighten my wall
where my crayon landlord hangs
from a bent nail.
My black father sits crooked
in the kitchen
drunk on Jesus’ blood turned
to cheap wine.
In his tremor he curses
the landlord who grins
from inside the rent book.
My father’ s eyes are
bolls of cotton.
He sits upon the landlord’ s
operating table,
the needle of the nation
sucking his soul.