Our Town Intermezzo

Our Town Intermezzo


by Bob Hicok


Gats’ tag
over Shooters’
on DOAs’
covering Dog Tony’s confession
DOWN WITH MINE, red
black green
yellow paint
shrouding the orange
brick of the Brews-n-Chews, first
wall you see
after Memphis Avenue crosses the God
of Abraham
off the list of possible
hallelujahs and falls in love
with the God of Jacob, the one
you can’t look at
without your eyes going to fire.

* * *

AK, said one doctor. Uzi, the other. In a month,
bandages off, Deena looked at the half-moon
chewed from her shoulder. Outside, Jasmine
and LaTisha and Carly in halters, throwing signs
and sipping Cokes. Deena fingered the rough edge
of absence, watched in the mirror as she traced
a new body, smooth flow of her arm gone,
a distraction from eyes and smile and breasts.
She tried a bandanna, long-sleeve T, worked hard
to fill the mirror with the juice of how she used
to look. When she went out, Jasmine and LaTisha
laughed, said a shark got her, said now she got
a grip for her man. Carly walked her off, in
the alley stared, said please can I touch.

* * *

A Blood Stone Villain pours a slug from a 40
into the ground for Jamal. The dead
are thirsty, want beer, want food and light



and air if they can get it, when we look
the other way. The crack of 9’s
and 25’s waves across the block, a little spice



in the palm, the recoil a tribute, a prayer.
Jamal’s brother an OGC, god of time,
interpreter of the scar, complete with telepathic



skin and 220 stare. He doesn’t say anything
as others begin the dirge of revenge,
offers no prayer to his trembling hands, to the sky’s



indifferent blue. He knows the dead refuse to leave,
slip through the throats of needles,
whisper your name during sex and wear your clothes,



leaving them on the wrong chair. Jamal was hands
and breath and hair, a crooked mouth,
stupid jokes that went nowhere. As he walks



out of the shop, his brother watches taggers turn Jamal
into history, a black face, blood-red name.
The song says Gonna die gonna die make it last



not first. Jamal’s brother makes it to Memphis, sits
on the curb and listens to the sun
burn leaves and grass, to the sun touch the dirt



and street and cars with equal affection. He’s shaking
every wish from his body, each thought
from his mind, he’s saying no again and again



like rain falling from a crippled sky, a fast and violent
chant, as if the body lives inside
the word, as if by breath this life can be undone.



Bob Hicok
Published in Ploughshares