Roger Bonair- Agard
United States
Roger Bonair- Agard
A veteran of the spoken-word scene, two-time US National Slam Champion, this poet is according to the legendary Amiri Baraka ‘ a poet who fixes his experience with memory and uses memory image as analyzer of his experience, a poet of live language mastering its literary "statement." This is one of his many poems that can be described as rich tapestries of colour, superbly crafted and intent-driven.
BIOGRAPHY
Roger Bonair-Agard is a native of Trinidad and Tobago, a Cave Canem fellow and author of two collect... More >
How The Ghetto Loves Us Back
she wears yellow and royal bluespandex down one legon the other a batty-ridercut-off fleshy ass exposedat its lowest cornerand rounding into excellencethis is how the ghetto loves us backthe matching top is a bikinieverything else falls into placenose-ring attitude gum-poppinglips and nostrils flaredblue and yellow painted toenailsto remind usthis is no accidentwomen turn young children’s facesinto their ugly pastel skirtslift their carefully coiffed headsand sniff the air for judgmentolder men shake their headsin public disapproval or to hidethe beginning of their own erectionsyoung girls look on in aweequal parts amazement envy andI want to be like her when I grow upat the obvious mystic powerof the high jiggling assthe atmosphere is of festive ridiculethe most honest among usthe jobless and the laborershoot and holler from stoops and cornersshout at one another through windowshigh above the streets utter general and publicGoddamn(s)!she ignores them allexcept to once stopand fix her hairwhile exaggeratedly cocking the generous hipsto one sidenone of us able to getwhat we think is her stenchoff our handscan’t cast our gazes away from heras the scent grows strongerrather than subsidesthis ghetto scentaccentuated in the noonday heatsweating up our palmsno less her pimps and molestersno less her rapiststhan whatever scarred the black backof the exposed left thighthan whatever strewed the crack vials crunching under her heelsthan whatever convinces herto readjust the halter every 30 secondsshe fades into the bright white distanceand into our imaginationspast the grade schoolersjumping rope and cussingin front of the Shiloh Baptist Church of the Redeemerpast the corner where Shaqwan’s 13 year old bloodmuddied up the sidewalkpast the four hair-dressing salonsthe three take-out Chinese food restaurantsand the two liquor-stores jeweledwith bullet-proof glassand the stench is still with usthicker now than evera nuclear mushroom-cloud that niggers be thinking is rainbut this is just how the neighborhood smellslike gun metal and acidand gym shoes and struggleand crabs in a barrel and struggleand gentrificationand struggleand police carsand little girls aspiring to video hair-dosand struggleand the armpits of the second racist mayor in a rowand struggleand struggleand struggleand struggleand this is how it smells now that we know how much we don't love the ghettothis is how it smellsthis is how it feelsthis is how it tastesthis is how the ghetto loves us back
