Collage for Romare Bearden
By Jayne Cortez
From white lightnin to
bowed heads in red
rooms of pregnancy
under blackness
spread out closed in
how do you do
oval cries from target eyes
possessed by spirits
temple spirits of indefinite feelings
two jagged teeth
chapped lips peeling into
a conjur woman’s towel at the insistence of
an imposing bull
the holy ghost
a sign of remembrance
the signal for new leaves of
spring tidings
to a lonely woman blemished against
G string banjos as she gumbos into
the wake of steel knives and
we molass rum spoiled omens on detached birth
truckin fuckin over to the sunrise baptist
church of the flying eagles church of
smelly garbage church of angel rats flying in
teeth formation toward
cheeks of churches tribal
marking the blues
stand up
for this slow drag of a slow death from
a fast world outside of choir books
dream books
comic books
junkie books &
bookies booking book
next to brick buildings
purple leaking roofs
next to lady’s gardenia spray
magenta curtained hearse
next to life gone back
separated from the beautiful times
downhearted times
magic times separated from
the time of melons gone from
evening meals in
front of potbellied stoves and
red checkered tablecloths
gone up in flames where we
used to love hard breathing fast against
the sound of hide & go seek voices
gone
the floors where we stomped all night to
drum boogies of duprees high
tight skirts of jelly shakes
fishtail fuchsia dark elderberry wine
“who’s gonna hit on who tonight”
gone into saxophone obituaries like
a seventeen piece casket sailing to the tombs
we donated to the welfare office
in african masks & head rags
volunteers
cracking toes from tin tubs with
ashy legs from chicken shacks we came
covered in newspapers & blood
from barbershop mirrors
and beauty parlor smoke
we came like stripes from the sun in
defense of our numb stomachs
our out flung arms
withered hands
swelling feet
like stilts
we came to the rhythm of
embalming fluid
turned down
turned around
turned back
we came
& came & came
but there was no help coming
on blue monday
box car tuesday
step sitting wednesday
pawn shop thursday
liquor store friday
big lip saturday or
swollen jaw sunday
nothing
but the merciful revelation of our roped
ankles & sculpted profiles
understanding these disjointed faces &
nail covered bodies burning
and stinging with life force of
a powerful juju
insideout
deuce by deuce
who owns the grey green roach infested
funk holes we pee pee on
who owns the handkerchiefs fanning
our doo doo butt riffs
who owns the jook joints we buy morphine in
who owns our hepatitis souls we
bend needles for
who owns the black bitch amazons &
their put on wigs
who owns those rejection slips computing
from a blackman’s balls
who owns the teardrops on our fathermother’s bed
who owns the back yards where
the old people rest
who owns these blue interior orange mornings on
fire escapes and wooden carved doors
this terror in our throats
who owns our sufferings if not our own
torn bodies the tremor & the quiver in
our left over bowels
who but we know the size
and the structure of
this patchwork quilt
Notes:
This essay is part of the portfolio “Jayne Cortez: I Imitate No One.” You can read the rest of the portfolio in the November 2024 issue.
“Collage for Romare Bearden” is from Firespitter: The Collected Poems of Jayne Cortez (Nightboat Books, 2025) and was originally published in Festival and Funerals (1971). We are grateful to Nightboat Books for their assistance in compiling this folio, and to the estate of Jayne Cortez for their permission in reprinting this poems.
Source: Poetry (November 2024)