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The Real Boy
He calls me my mother’s father’s name and I give him figs
Filled with tiny, dazzling wasps. He swallows them whole,
His mouth a cathedral I enter nightly in the middle of nowhere
On East 14th, removing the July zinc from his jawline with the tips
Of doe-eyed fingers. I pray for pause, for the heat of summer
To burn time to a crisp, for this cavern of city swine to be permed
Into my skull like memory, for the scent of his beard to linger into
Morning, where I am unreal again with nothing to do but develop
Feelings for lesser men, whose gazes land in the most devastating
Places, who call me girl with no sense of irony or tenderness. In the dark,
Somewhere in Manhattan we wear condoms, teach each other
Our own eulogies with full lips. He calls me my mother’s father’s
Name and I call us both real, here in this dreamworld where
The fruit is the only thing haunted.
Nightbirds at the Met, 1974
for LaBelle
They say the opera house was
invaded by aliens that night,
by you and all your darlings –
Bloomingdale Blacks, club gays and
drag queens, hippie freaks, Puerto-Ricans,
and all your Black mamas,
sisters, aunties, and silent
lovers, space children waiting for your
supersonics to take them to some new
world. And you knew all about flight,
didn’t you? Could have told Toni all
about surrender, about riding
that funky wind, about travelling
light, the weight of suffering. You
told the children, “Wear Something
Silver,” and they were wonders.
Titanium and sterling steel and
faces dusted in starlight. They say
the only luggage was bangles, baubles,
sequins and studs, a symphony of
tambourines, maracas, and $1 whistles
transforming a drowsy hippodrome
into the world’s most opulent, extravagant
spacecraft, turned all the way on, wanting for
takeoff, willing to be transported by you
and you alone, an all-girl band of intergalactic
voyagers, afro-futuristic life forms drenched
in feathers, bodies gasping and sweating
out the violence of an era. Nona, Sarah, Patti,
Sarah, Patti, Nona, Patti, Nona, Sarah,
they forget you were in love. You
must have been, to fly so high
and never quite come down, to
hold each other so tenderly with
your voices, your whole chests. Somebody
somewhere remembers the night LaBelle
took the Metropolitan
Opera House and flew off with it, freed
it from blood-soaked soil, tore apart its
most violent dimensions and went
far away, to an erotic Black beyond,
psychedelic queer paradise. But that somebody is
nowhere to be found, lightyears
away from our dying sun, humming
songs tasting of marmalade, cloaked
in silver.
End note: Some references in this poem are taken from the article “Rock ‘n’ Soulers Labelle Play the Met, Yet” by Curt Davis, found in People Magazine from October 21, 1974.
Cai Rodrigues-Sherley (he/they) is a Black queer poet, teaching artist, and lover of 1970s youth poetry. He cares about trans childhoods, queer bodies, mortality, heritage, and love. He is a Sagittarius Sun, Gemini Rising, and Cancer Moon, which means nothing and absolutely everything. He is the 2019 recipient of the Smith College Emily Babcock Poetry Prize, a 2020 Pushcart Prize Nominee, and a 2020 The Watering Hole Winter Fellow. Their work can be found in Cosmonauts Avenue, Brooklyn Poets, and Volume Poetry. They currently live in Queens with their partner and are an MFA candidate at New York University in their Creative Writing Program.
You can find him on Twitter @caifieri and on Instagram as @crsed_poet