francine j. harris: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

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Portrait of My Father Mocking Sammy Davis Jr.

 

He widens an eye and gets down on one knee.

He accepts a sliver of silver from my mother and kisses

her behind. He calls her Frank Sinatra. He calls our house

 

the Rat Pack. He steps away from his piano into the kitchen with a carrot

and now he is Nat King Cole. He is singing “Mona Lisa” on a tap

while he holds my mother’s hand. She is the head

 

of Capitol Records. He could do this every day

for 15 minutes. He forever sings to the stalk over jungle plants

buzzing along the windowsill. They go hand over hand

 

in a photo album. His pompadour is tight. He leans out the window crooning.

He hollers at all the little snakes, get back. Now he is bundling up in sweaters.

Now we all eat chocolate pudding. He hates the way we curse.

My father is silvering up his tap shoes. He overdoses on

 

a living room couch. Now, he has a Duke Maestro on a poster.

He’s super funny with a self-demure. In his nod he is Richard Pryor,

bluing in an afro flame. He jokes about his body

on fire. Now, if only he could remember his mother. He crumbles into

 

Sunday morning on stage. Suddenly scatting over oatmeal, now he is

Al Jarreau. We, she, and he take five. We are strumming into stutter

on guitar. But now he is turning over the dark into Miles. He turns his back

 

to my mother’s fading hue. He is blowing holes into living

room walls. His popped lapels are flattening. Flattering

his jacket is leather and Shaft. He sports the Private Eye Duke

 

slumped over. He takes up a shotgun to the neighborhood

in blue. Here he is, the mirage of a sober pimp.

He sends my mother off to the mailbox. One last honey

go get my money. The snow is full of snow and maroon.

 

He is Bryant Gumbel up at sunrise. Keeping his news

tuned to the network. He is high and he can’t stop

smiling. None of his teeth go missing. He is painting his mouth

 

blue and dressing in dresses. My father flips Flip Wilson. No

one will see his second act. The weather is full of beautiful

muppets. My father is Ben Vereen.

 

He tips his bowler, and he lifts the sky.

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francine j. harris is the author of three collections, including Here is the Sweet Hand, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. Originally from Detroit, she has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the MacDowell Colony, and the Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library. She is Professor of English at the University of Houston and serves as Consulting Faculty Editor at Gulf Coast.

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                                                                       Valentina Bautista, The Rat Pack

 

Comments

[Clarinda]

Mind blowing. In blue. Omg

[Don Berger]

This poem's as vivid as they come, packed with ever newer, striking detail. I'm glad I've found her work here on this terrific site, Terence! I just love how information about these characters keeps tumbling out, interestingly. A wonderful poem from you Francine!

[Barbara Henning]

Wonderful poem, Francine. Congratulations!
Hurray for Detroit.

[Terence Winch]

Don: good to hear from you.

[Grace Cavalieri]

My jagged heart, its pieces, just left my body .

[Grace Cavalieri]

My jagged heart, its pieces, just left my body .

[Sr. Leslie]

Such a rich cast of characters! The images and portraits swift and vivid…the best portrait though, of her dad…Thank you Terence and thank you francine!

[Eileen Reich]

I love how she tells of her father’s bringing so many great icons to life once more. She shows us a funny, talented man. Great poem.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Leslie!

[lally]

what a unique tribute to an obviously complicated parental relationship, could have extended this riff into an entire book and i would have stayed with it to the end, as is i wanted more

[susan campbell]

Iconic!

[Jack Ridl]

I will be reflecting on whether we know the man, whether the children know him, whether he’s bringing us/them an introduction to iconic figures or if there’s no one there or if there’s no one there in any of us, that we’re always being someone else and if this is probably or mystery, miracle.
Thank you so much!

[David Beaudouin]

Wow! I love the pathos of this poem; as the figure of the poet's father goes through a series of clumsy transformations, one senses a downward spiral in play over time as he moves through (bringing that E E Cummings' poem to mind) "dooms of love." It hit me hard, like the truth of a poem should. Thanks, Francine and Terence!

[Terence Winch]

Thanks for the comment, David.

[Jeffrey Cyphers Wright]

Lifts the sky!