Summer, Still Life

Summer, Still Life

Black children playing

in the dark. Yells of conquering

and laughter of finding.

The day winds down.

The humid air finally cooling

blows lightly through

the breezeway. Mommas with sleep

fighting babies

on their laps

trying to suckle every drop of

the summer night. Lightening bugs

flicker haphazardly over the small

patch of green encircled by

monstrous buildings

known only as

the projects.

The children,

with blue and red snow

cone stained mouths

and shirts, a muddy butter

knife for Momma peg, cateye

and bogey marbles rattle pants

pockets. They smell of sweat and all of

outdoors. They gather

under the glow of the street

light swarmed with moths until

they are called family

by family

for baths and beds

under window fans whirring.

Brown noise pulling

the heated air out

of those cramped cinder block

apartments.

The night moves on

the lies of old men loose

on their beer breath. A moan

trails off sweet; a woman, singing.

Occasional car horns and

loud unmistakably black

music builds upon the night.

Teenagers stink of

weed and sex and

yearning.

This kind of night

conjures dreams

imprints memories. Memories that now

catch me and causes me

to stop, still. Moving on

the air across too many miles,

experiences, decades ago.

My soul leaps

feels greedy, for a time, for

Black children, Black

laughter, Black family,

Black love,

Black life.

Mariah L Richardson 4/6/2021