Research: Journals
The Journal
Past Issues
26.2
Terrance Hayes
The Blue TerranceI loved Bruce Lee and a ten dollar ukulele.
For my little mutt Shepherd and the saplings,
I performed black Superman melodramas barefoot
on the picnic table until my toenail opened
on my big toe like the hood of my father’s Lincoln
and a fever broke. I dropped stuff.
I showed Erica (my queen) McQueen
my junior penis. I showed Connie Simpson,
I showed Meko Jackson, I showed Precious Jones,
and again and again they split like pigtails
on a trampoline. (I wanted to possess
and be possessed.) I was not allowed
to make eggs and rice or lasagna.
“Blood!” my gang said. “Blood, blood, blood!”
until someone fainted. We were The Booty Snatchers
until a fifth grader slapped Ronnie.
We were The Hell Cats until Sammy &
The Big Dawgs
jumped the fence. We were The Dream Team
until we awakened. There was a boy
who could win at H-O-R-S-E on crutches.
There was a girl in a black training bra
and a mother in silk pajamas. That was the year
Baybay held me out a window by my ankles.
I began an obsessive regiment of drawing
The Peanuts. (Charlie Brown began with
an O.)
I was not allowed to take showers.
There was a deep inarticulate grief
for David Banner and a high frothing euphoria
for the Hulk. There was a law
that said sooner or later you’ll hear the rivers
of the skull, the small islands
where volcanoes erupt. (I waited to erupt.)
I kept my head up to keep the blood off
my sneakers. I feared roaches more than divorce.
My muscles weighed less than my skin.
My neighbor, Mr. Black Belt, nearly broke my wrist
before he vanished. Let’s just say all those knuckle-
sandwiches taught me mercy. If you can remember
the dreams where your mouth is full of mulch,
you can imagine the tongue in a granny knot,
a train wreck of a sentence jammed inside a throat,
a gullet piping steam, the air inside a fist.
