I like okry cause
it slips, said my old cousin
famously, & I agree—
all the more filled with awe at all
you can do. Wayward
uncle, you grew up like a weed
yet were so much my age I called
you brother—like an eye
or early autumn you stay
red around the edges
& still green
at the same time. Tender
yet prickly, you gave gifts
whenever we needed them most—
visited each summer & lingered
much too long, mooching
your way through.
Though some nights I hated you
to us, & yourself, you were true—
stayed stewed,
never fried—the neighborhood
drunk, turned belligerent
& too tough
if ignored. Still
you weep when stirred,
make a gumbo worth
fasting for. Seventh son,
pilgrim, you once were a slave
I heard, a language
smuggled here in our hair
to teach us home
& what freedom
wasn't. In dusk
I've seen my father
cut you down—you, who
we prayed over each night
making sure, small
steady star, just for you
we saved plenty room.
from Dear Darkness: Poems by Kevin Young (Knopf, 2008)
