A Duplex after Jericho Brown

We’ve got today, but again, maybe not—
maybe just this minute, this breath, this right-now song.

Why, then, not belt it, this right-now song, this minute, while we yet breathe?
Let us skip and turn and lift and jump, arms outstretched in exultation,

arms outstretched to shout with the universe that we exult in the now,
the unexpected, the broken and the whole,

the unexpected that sometimes attempts to break us or send us spiraling
into the avalanche’s path or into the abyss’s darkness like the news we received yesterday,

news of stem cells in the dark recesses of bone marrow growing abysmally 
out of control, scarring and causing genetic mutations;

yet when life mutates and we lose control, the very marrow of our being
hints of our short stay in this broken but beautiful world whispering

of eternity set in the human heart. 
Yes, we’ve got today— but again, maybe not.
                        

The mistake ninety-nine percent of humanity made, as far as facts
could see, was being ashamed of what they were; lying about it, 
trying to be somebody else. ―J.K. Rowling

I remember attending the D.A.R.’s annual meeting
with my mother during my senior year, I, robed
in youth and the future and my mother’s only pair
of run-free hosiery, posing for the flashing cameras
and flashy reporters, she in plain home-spun dress,
austere and unadorned, several years older 
than the other mothers in the room, worn from days
of carrying the weight of wonder and work and ailing
husband. There I was, accepting the school’s Good Citizen
award, ashamed―ashamed of my poverty, ashamed 
of my mother’s primitiveness, ashamed of who I was.
That night the gold seal on the black-framed certificate 
blazed like Charon’s burning eyes upon the dresser, 
exposing a fraud. Liar, liar, pants on fire. That night 
I nestled deep in Mama’s patched and piecemealed quilt
that looked a lot like love and forgiveness.
                        

It was September. I remember my brother
beckoning me to the door of my classroom
to tell me our homeplace was burning.
I recall nothing much about our half-hour
drive to get there, but I must have been thinking
of the gathering room Daddy had carpentered 
at the back of the house, one side wall and 
the whole back wall windowed, curtained
just enough to allow in the sun and 
a spectacular view of chickens pecking
in the yard near the rusty old barn and 
buxom chinaberry tree. I must have thought
about the shelling of peas on the front porch,
the washing of clothes on the back, Mama
at work in the kitchen, singing Just a Little Talk 
with Jesus. And what of the physical items
that spoke of who we were? The mirrored, 
whatnot-filled, upright piano; the white,
red-lettered, imitation-leather Bible
in oak bookcase; the shoeboxes brimming 
with black and white photos, report cards 
from our teachers, an occasional obituary clipping
from the local newspaper; or advertisement 
for Bantam or Leghorn chicks from the feed 
and seed catalog. And though I must have thought 
of the meeting we would hold to plan the support
and care of our mother, nothing could have prepared 
me for the image when we turned onto the street, 
the house a towering inferno. Standing in the middle 
of the road, the citadel of our family, wringing
her hands, at times pulling her apron to her cheeks
to wipe the tears, whimpers, sometimes wails, 
emanating from her core like a fawn in distress.