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by Derrick Austin I didn’t know what they were talking about at the table with their glasses of bitter red. Even their laughter didn’t belong to them. The affected way they moved their hands like stage actors from another century. My parents were teaching me about love or money. A peevish child, I had not found my intelligence. My body, my emotions, and my eyes were separate. Play rough. Draw blood. Don’t speak. No tears. Hardening. Boys hardening. Hardening in my underwear. Often I imagined myself as a glamorous white woman in a sequin gown, hat tilted just so. I laugh at it now. A laugh cry. Oh to be any kind of dress. Any kind of event in it. Any kind of dress, any kind of event in it, I laugh at it now. A laugh cry. Oh to be in a sequin gown, hat tilted just so. Often I imagined myself as a glamorous white woman. Hardening. Boys hardening. Hardening in my underwear. Play rough. Draw blood. Don’t speak. No. Tears. My body, my emotions, and my eyes were separate. A peevish child, I had not found my intelligence. My parents were teaching me about love or money like stage actors from another century: the affected way they moved their hands, even their laughter didn’t belong to them at the table with their glasses of bitter red. I didn’t know what they were talking about. Now that I’ve survived when does living begin?  photo by Danny Montemayor Derrick Austin is the author of Trouble the Water (BOA Editions). A Cave Canem fellow, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best American Poetry, Image: A Journal of Arts and Religion, New England Review, The Nation, and Tin House. He was a finalist for the 2017 Kate Tufts Discovery Award. He is a 2019-2021 Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University. |