*First published in the The Indianapolis Review

Sleeper Cells (A Father Implants Life Maps)
—for Dwayne and Roger

When most men bend crooked like rivers,
& every chest hair reminds you of your uncle—

the grunts, your grandpapa—you mesmerize at
your father like he the sweet crumb of cornbread

trapped in his own black beard. You don’t wonder.
You are too young to tag all the wins & losses,

the many daddies dropping, dropping, dropping.
These moments vesperize—jumping crystals before

halogen car lamps. How you are now—no more
a twinkle, an inkling—real motion gaining forward

balance with each wobbly step. Dad’s rich with
smiles—you are in his optics measuring his future.

His tunnel vision enlarges, replete with glad tensions
of gives & takes, tensions for planted Bluebells

& lullabies growing into tomorrow-things. He does this
grooming, this watering with tears, this talking, so his

child moves beyond semiprecious, becomes valued
minerals exploding in the earth, rich with runoff—

grows to outlaw the jaded of world’s dubiousness.
You, child, are neotsunami. The cocklebur within hot

verbs against stasis. The moon's electric bill receipt.
He has prepared you for next Saturday’s rebellion.

Touch your face in photo album, his each & every believe.

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Curtis L. Crisler is a Professor and Author of numerous books.

*Published in 2020 as part of Unsuitable for Fools

Black White Photograph
—August 7, 1930, J Thomas Shipp and Abraham S Smith were lynched.

Old-lace posed behind a cigarette
and pinched fingers,

turn. It was embers washed by a Kodak
flung at the night

with punch-drunk grins,
illustrated faces.

A thousands angry-eyed,
would-be heroes or whatcha-call-them

might bend knees
again to their God

while barn fires wait
for “black bodies swinging in the southern breeze.”^[1]

I hate the “read”
of bones & flesh testing a lyncher’s rope,

but I’d rather not be
—erased.

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^[1]…excerpt from the song “Strange Fruit” by Billie Holliday.

Detrick Hughes is the author of several books.