I dreamt of family last night. Under welcome and scrutiny I had a love affair with a cousin of mine. But he wound up being straight while I was still gay, so he decided to do me wrong to get out of it. I almost beat his ass before we made amends. You see I'm manlier in my dreams; more touched by violence and circumstance; an around the way Nigga that won’t back down, and who’s always willing to throw down.
But it was my aunt who had surprised me most, my fierce and beautiful aunty Ann, the co-matriarch of the clan; a Mississippi woman from souls to brow, who is spiritually conservative, stoic, and proud. The second sister of seven vicious no nonsense bitches. She’d beat me once for sucking dick . . . but last night she welcomed me home anew with a peaceful power I’ve come to recognize as the strength behind my mother’s eyes.
She was my aunt but not
My mother but not quite
A sweet feminine divinity
Made real by memories that stepped in to play the role of someone I thought I knew
In that weird way that dreams do.
But this was the part I thought was prophecy.
This aunty dream lady introduced me to my other cousin Shawn, who I haven’t seen since my teenage years. In the real world this is still her son but they’re not currently getting along too well. Now Shawn is studying to be a doctor, but the dream seems to think he should wear a mechanic’s jump suit; blue and soiled, and unbuttoned down the front; humble and strong like the ones my grandpa use to wear.
We hugged all shy and nervous like, but he shivered when I touched him.
He smiled and I smiled too.
I said “If I’d saw you on the street I would not have recognized you”
He shrugged and said “I'm Conrad’s boy”
I agreed “You look just like him”
Conrad died ages ago
The brother of a man who had beat my Mom for years.
Why he’d want to look like him I’d never know.
But I guess some people love their Dads
I was not so lucky. . .
He loved the fact that he looked like his
And he cried when I told him so.
And as an aside,
Or a thank you,
Or simply fortune’s speaking voice,
He told me to check my “BASEBALL CARDS”.
Now the dream assumed that we collected together; warm fuzzy pseudo-memories of buying dollar bags of “Upper Deck” on warm clear Saturdays. And the sheer fact that I know the name of the company proves we must have collected for a time. But during waking hours I can’t imagine that that could have ever been me. Was there a time before my sexuality? Was I ever that much of an average boy? Was this Mississippi boy once really just a “Mississippi Boy”; on a baseball team and in the Cub Scouts and throwing rocks at bee hives for fun? Something tells me this was more than just a dream, and that somewhere there’s a baseball card that needs to be found that’s worth more than anything in my families bank accounts.
But if metaphor beats out literal interpretation. . .
There is something from my childhood I’ve seemed to put away
From the days when honeysuckles and magnolias lined my summer days
And black boys bought baseball cards on warm clear Saturdays
But it was my aunt who had surprised me most, my fierce and beautiful aunty Ann, the co-matriarch of the clan; a Mississippi woman from souls to brow, who is spiritually conservative, stoic, and proud. The second sister of seven vicious no nonsense bitches. She’d beat me once for sucking dick . . . but last night she welcomed me home anew with a peaceful power I’ve come to recognize as the strength behind my mother’s eyes.
She was my aunt but not
My mother but not quite
A sweet feminine divinity
Made real by memories that stepped in to play the role of someone I thought I knew
In that weird way that dreams do.
But this was the part I thought was prophecy.
This aunty dream lady introduced me to my other cousin Shawn, who I haven’t seen since my teenage years. In the real world this is still her son but they’re not currently getting along too well. Now Shawn is studying to be a doctor, but the dream seems to think he should wear a mechanic’s jump suit; blue and soiled, and unbuttoned down the front; humble and strong like the ones my grandpa use to wear.
We hugged all shy and nervous like, but he shivered when I touched him.
He smiled and I smiled too.
I said “If I’d saw you on the street I would not have recognized you”
He shrugged and said “I'm Conrad’s boy”
I agreed “You look just like him”
Conrad died ages ago
The brother of a man who had beat my Mom for years.
Why he’d want to look like him I’d never know.
But I guess some people love their Dads
I was not so lucky. . .
He loved the fact that he looked like his
And he cried when I told him so.
And as an aside,
Or a thank you,
Or simply fortune’s speaking voice,
He told me to check my “BASEBALL CARDS”.
Now the dream assumed that we collected together; warm fuzzy pseudo-memories of buying dollar bags of “Upper Deck” on warm clear Saturdays. And the sheer fact that I know the name of the company proves we must have collected for a time. But during waking hours I can’t imagine that that could have ever been me. Was there a time before my sexuality? Was I ever that much of an average boy? Was this Mississippi boy once really just a “Mississippi Boy”; on a baseball team and in the Cub Scouts and throwing rocks at bee hives for fun? Something tells me this was more than just a dream, and that somewhere there’s a baseball card that needs to be found that’s worth more than anything in my families bank accounts.
But if metaphor beats out literal interpretation. . .
There is something from my childhood I’ve seemed to put away
From the days when honeysuckles and magnolias lined my summer days
And black boys bought baseball cards on warm clear Saturdays
