Loose Boa’ds

     Sun beatin down wit magnilyin eye, watchin me hard, like Mister. Flies be wippin in & out, smellin me wit da lash, I be durn ef dem federate mozskitoz aint skeered of my black hide. Always flyin bout my beads, always lookin down at me. I be durn ef doz hot chains aint pressin gainst my skin. Nuttin worse den tryin ta breave in skillets uv fire. Hits hell I say. Nuttin butt hell!

     'Taint much ta see sittin here on a graveyaud poach, breavin black air, loose boa’d air, list’nin ta rusted ol boa’ds crack & moan like whiskey mule bones loozin’ splinters. Da cott’n & wheat & grass, dey all look bout da same. Got mo color den I eber had. Yon I hyear da trees fixin ta laff. Been whisperin & laffin at me all ere year. Not yet a loose boa’d, aint cut, still livin free. Butt choo wait, cum time wen da firplace be hungrey. Luk at cha, not sayin much nah wit dem leaves pokin hits mouf.

     I be durn ef I aint got butt one shew. Whear hit gone? ‘Taint much ta say wit one tung. I be durn if hit aint got tired of flappin, tired uv waitin fo me ta move & jus hop-on like Kunta. Whatcha gon do? Shew strings & woe-men. Trippin up & steppin on, aint nuttin butt da same.Yup, I reckon hits bout dat time uf da year. I can hyear tween my legs, in ma feet. Stikay words, cott’n paste toes talkin bout hot & slow dayz. Yup, I hyear ya comin up da Nile road, draggin yo big ol brogan brehsts, pullin & puffin & diggin & scatchin & lookin & wavin. Is dat my shew? Durn my hide ef dat aint chew I smell. Like a rooster callin ere body ere moanin, hit ken tell time.

      Durn my hide ef ya aint fixin ta make us black grits & white sand, & what fo? ‘Taint no use tryin ta poe white sand over black eye peas. Durn my hide ef hit aint hell walkin round all dem loose boa’ds.




About the Author Paul Lomax: I am currently enrolled as a doctoral student in Education. One who more often than not opens with P-Q4, I write more poetry than fiction, read more fiction than poetry, and hold dear the notion simplicity is the greatest panacea for what ails the self. Poetry published in Pank Magazine, Postpoetry Magazine, Ars Medica, Tryst, and the Blue Fifth Review.