by Bernardo Wade
Sometimes when it’s this dark,
I light matches & let them
burn the tips of my fingers
while I watch the flame—
this is what I know about memory.
It flickers when it feels
like it. I’ve tried to forget that bare-
knuckle night I left work,
thanking Nick for the quality
of his daiquiris. He had
a toothy smile—he’s gone now,
a story for another night.
Though I should’ve stayed
for another drink, I went
to meet Slim before the achy chills
started from my neck
down to the soles of my feet.
Here, I’d like to remind you
of the time Richard Pryor lights
a match, you know, at the end
of Live on the Sunset Strip,
he says, What is that? Richard Pryor
running down the street, & just like
that we’re taught to admire
another man’s defeat. People will ask
their boogeyman to step
into the light, laugh at the first stone
thrown—paying for a seat.
This shit is not interesting
to the ones who know, offstage
Pryor danced on the teeth
of his deceits, slipping into spells
of regret. & I, who’d disappeared
that week, got her text & flew
across town because I knew
this time she was serious:
she’d thrown my shit behind
the dumpster—a place I won’t
soon forget—hold on, let’s say a prayer
for the brothers who don’t
make it. God, bless those whose
hot blood tests the blue lights
knifing through the night.
Amen to these men, who bare
teeth at life. Thus, when I turned down
the one-way on Dorgenois Street,
the same street nine years later
I mourned a beloved killed by
a drunk driver, a driver who could
have been me, I saw those cops
& I thought run but then thought
gun. So instead, I pulled over,
thinking, I’m in for it all right. Knew it
was my turn to boogeyman
into the light, so I lifted my hands up
just right, fingers spread so wide
you might have thought I was aflame.
I imagine the match Pryor lights
for the crowd, its sulfur smelled
like good night. When I heard 12
close the car door, I felt the weight
of Slim’s package—
enough for a bid—wedged
in my waistband, hidden,
unlike the belongings I’d never see
again. Then he said, Move & you’re done.
Before I blinked, the click
of cuffs snapped against
my wrists. He pulled my shirt just so,
& I felt the waistband
flick. Fuck fell from my lips
as I watched the little bag of powder
drift between me & the 12 with fire.
When he smiled, I heard a round
of applause. Pryor holds the match,
& I swear, I see him flinch. I wasn’t
surprised when I saw Resisting Arrest
on those multicolored sheets.
Ain’t but a few hours of peacocking
before I felt that familiar ache—
cold sweats, jonesin’, a yearn
for death filled my stomach
as I crouched down near a man,
who after thirty minutes of complaining
about his baby momma’s expired tags
noticed the animal writhing.
I lie so childlike, I can almost taste
my mother’s gumbo on Christmas Day,
& how a soft blanket might feel
against my skin. I know, I know
this shit is not interesting
unless you know the warmth
that comes when a stranger
takes his coat & covers your body
on a jailhouse floor.
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