A.S.Indira
POEM
SORROW IS NOT MY NAME
By ROSS GAY .
—after Gwendolyn Brooks
No matter the pull toward brink ,No
matter the florid ,deep sleep awaits
There is a time for everything ,Look,
Just this morning a vulture
Nodded his red ,grizzled head at me ,
and I looked at him ,admiring
the sickle of his beak .
Then the wind kicked up ,and ,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Jest like that ,And to boot ,
there are ,on this planet alone ,something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things ,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees :agave persimmon ,
stick ball ,the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market ,Think of that
The long night ,
the skeleton in the mirror ,the man behind me
on the bus taking notes ,yeah ,yeah.
But looks : my nicee is running
through a field
calling my name ,My neighbor
sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basket ball Court .
I remember ,My color’s green .
I’am Spring .
—-for Walter Aikens
About The Author
