Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Juke Box, 1946

The warmth of your message was less than that
of a small campfire under a moonless
night extinguished with ice water from pails
filled five times in the dead of winter. My
subsequent actions were appropriate.

While walking downtown I heard the laughter
of neighbors with waves of goodnight, and smelled
the first sign of autumn from cleaned chimneys.
I unbuttoned my coat to feel the breeze
across my neck soothing my frustration.
I passed shops already closed for hours, and
prepared myself for the headlights advancing.

Congregated strangers, we touched music
with our movements swaying reverently.

Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's War Series No. 11, 1947

Love was a chandelier with all candles
lit. We turned it around and danced as light
bounced off the walls. Love was scarves of red and
gold thrown in the air as we waltzed through rooms.
Love in the hallway mirror multiplied.
Love was seen crossing streets when afternoon
classes were through. Others ran the backyard
shortcuts. Love strolled the circuitous routes.

But love is a word. Write it down and
throw it away. Write LOVE on paper and
tear it up. Better still, write GRIEF in your
best handwriting and watch flames consume it.
Tattered scarves of red and gold lie beneath
a dusty mirror which reflects mute tones.

Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Tombstones, 1942

His smile could raise the setting sun even
as he coughed with his baby lungs. His tears
on his last days were cold fingers pinching
my back so hard they left welts. When he died
I broke like glass, shards so sharp I couldn't
be touched. This time I'll sit next to Death, and pat
my baby's back when I feel a coldness.

Death, you're a man in fancy clothes who slides
behind doors and steals all I own. Just try
to steal my child again, and you'll meet my
Blues-singing guardians. They've seen your face.
They scratched your arms as you took their daughters,
husbands, and sons. When you hear that hum hide
yourself. They'll depress your clandestine strength.

Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Seamstress, 1946

She creates a world in stitches from bolts
of silky fabric and delicate thread.
She watches this world fold or unfold as
it drops off the sewing table in hushed
tones. She whispers back, I'm almost finished.
From a basement apartment she watches
them wear what she creates, what makes them
step lightly up the stairs, advertise
her artistic brilliance and good taste.

What lures them to her are yards of red silk
you see draped on those mannequins. A red
rose in bloom; petals hidden are exposed.
Pin up this red and stitch it in place. Wait
for someone to find this world she creates.

Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Harlem Series No. 2, 1943

She does not look at the food as a gift
she receives from God, abundant and shared.
She looks at it as coins available
for a trade. Just show a little more than
the white of her eye to remove the frayed
tablecloth. Show the white of a freshly
pressed dress that matches military
crosses. That white smells of a harsh winter.

She throws the coins like marbles hoping to
grab more as they roll away and fall
like a light inconsequential rain off
the table. Sunlight turns them from smudged to gold.
She locks the door and walks past each street sign,
offers an exchange, a challenge, a game.