Tyree Daye

Please Arrive Fifteen Minutes Early

the urologist held my penis   

a thinness between   his hands   skin   and mine

for my body    has a history     with white men’s touch

I wrote middle first        instead of penis

the urologist held my middle

but that sentence was of shame

& I’m trying to get rid of that which I’m full of

the urologist made a bowl out of his hands

for my testicles   we were here to see

why my making a baby wasn’t easy

as my mother warned it would be      

& once    I heard my father say    he thought he couldn’t have kids

I know I’ve told you reader    already in another poem

I know capitalism     I blow the cinders too   

& so   you want your money’s worth

but to hear my father say such a true thing needs repeating

most small fish carried in his mouth remain in his mouth

there’s a future (baby) out there we hope to name

we want to open the door to another body we’ve made

we are working on a miracle

sometimes it’s a daughter

sometimes      it’s a son

Wastewater Treatment Plant

my daddy drove a shit truck

that smelled when it stopped moving

my daddy worked at a shit plant

where I thought they turned shit into gold

I don’t know   I was young

and my daddy looked like another country

when he sloshed through on Friday to pick me up

before we drove out to get my bother

so the next day we could all go to the dollar movies

or miniature golf    then to Applebee’s    

where we were silent as hair in our food

silent as the neon Bud light lamps

turning everything in the restaurant shit green

none of us had a common language

he spoke sediments and sorry

we spoke as brothers farther than where brothers should be

we fought over Sour Patch Kids

soured as we sat

dark bbq sauce on the side of our mouth

our mouths making mini mirrors of his

once   like there were six pennies in his stomach

he spat the words out    I      thought.   I     couldn’t.    have       kids.

my brother and I became two unknown bells-toning

through the town of his penis

I thank God for sour such beginnings

the doctor said it to me so easily 

he could’ve been singing 

your brain doesn’t tell your body to make enough sperm

or something like that   

I was swept with weeping from the music in his words

my brain and balls are two towns in one body and they do not share water

no children chase loose hens through the streets in either one

I feed no children slow-roasted hens

God knows   I worry about other beginnings

God knows   I cook a hen like a saint