Prelude to Bruise

Saeed Jones

• Publisher: Coffee House Press
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781566893749
• eBook ISBN: 9781566893848
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

Praise for Saeed Jones: "Jones is the kind of writer who's more than wanted: he's desperately needed." — FlavorWire "I get shout-happy when I read these poems; they are the gospel; they are the good news of the sustaining power of imagination, tenderness, and outright joy." —D. A. Powell "Prelude to Bruise works its tempestuous mojo just under the skin, wreaking a sweet havoc and rearranging the pulse. These poems don't dole out mercy. Mr. Jones undoubtedly dipped his pen in fierce before crafting these stanzas that rock like backslap. Straighten your skirt, children. The doors of the church are open." —Patricia Smith "It's a big book, a major book. A game-changer. Dazzling, brutal, real. Not just brilliant, caustic, and impassioned but a work that brings history—in which the personal and political are inter-constitutive—to the immediate moment. Jones takes a reader deep into lived experience, into a charged world divided among unstable yet entrenched lines: racial, gendered, political, sexual, familial. Here we absorb each quiet resistance, each whoop of joy, a knowledge of violence and of desire, an unbearable ache/loss/yearning. This is not just a "new voice" but a new song, a new way of singing, a new music made of deep grief's wildfire, of burning intelligence and of all-feeling heart, scorched and seared. In a poem, Jones says, "Boy's body is a song only he can hear." But now that we have this book, we can all hear it. And it's unforgettable." —Brenda Shaughnessy "Inside each hunger, each desire, speaks the voice of a boy that admits "I've always wanted to be dangerous." This is not a threat but a promise to break away from the affliction of silence, to make audible the stories that trouble the dimensions of masculinity and discomfort the polite conversations about race. With impressive grace, Saeed Jones situates the queer black body at the center, where his visibility and vulnerability nurture emotional strength and the irrepressible energy to claim those spaces that were once denied or withheld from him. Prelude to a Bruise is a daring debut." —Rigoberto González From "Sleeping Arrangement": Take your hand out
from under my pillow.And take your sheets with you.
Drag them under. Make pretend ghosts.I can't have you rattling the bed springs
so keep still, keep quiet.Mistake yourself for shadows.
Learn the lullabies of lint. Saeed Jones works as the editor of BuzzfeedLGBT.

INSOMNIAC

Small with wild legs, the boy stole your eyes

the day he was born.

In a language you’ve tried to keep

from him, your name is mother of sorrows.

When he does not answer your latest call, dream

him grown and gone: far off, a vial of your tears

on his nightstand.

In the autumn of his blood, he will siphon your hurt

to a child dying of thirst; the only inheritance

of worth in the village of your synapses.

But—for now—he’s still your boy. Sweet little

wreck. Check the room you’ve locked him in.

CLOSET OF RED

In place of no, my leaking mouth spills foxgloves.

Trumpets of tongued blossoms litter the locked closet.

Up to my ankles in petals, the hanged gowns close in,

mother multiplied, more—there’re always more

corseted ghosts, red-silk bodies crowd

my mouth. I would say no, please;

I would say sorry, Papa; I would never

ask for mother again, but dresses dressed

in dresses are dresses that own this garnet dark,

this mouth. These hands can’t find

the walls, only more mothers

emptied out.

THE BLUE DRESS

Her blue dress is a silk train is a river

is water seeps into the cobblestone streets of my sleep, is still raining

is monsoon brocade, is winter stars stitched into puddles

is good-bye in a flooded, antique room, is good-bye in a room of crystal bowls

and crystal cups, is the ring-ting-ring of water dripping from the mouths

of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the Mississippi River is a hallway, is leaks

like tears from windowsills of a drowned house, is windows open to waterfalls

is a bed is a small boat is a ship, is a current come to carry me in its arms

through the streets, is me floating in her dress through the streets

is only the moon sees me floating through the streets, is me in a blue dress

out to sea, is my mother is a moon out to sea.

ISAAC, AFTER MOUNT MORIAH

Asleep on the roof when rain comes,

water collects in the dips of his collarbone.

Dirty-haired boy, my rascal, my sacrifice. Never

an easy dream. I watch him wrestle my shadow, eyelids

trembling, one fist ready for me.

Leave him a blanket, leave him alone.

Night before, found him caked in dirt,

sleeping in a ditch; wet black stones for pillows.

What kind of father does he make me, this boy

I find tangled in the hair of willows, curled fetal

in the grove?

Once, I found him in a far field, the mountain’s peak

like a blade above us both.

PRETENDING TO DROWN

The only regret is that I waited

longer than a breath

to scatter the sun’s reflection

with my body.

New stars ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Anthracite
• 1. Insomniac
• 2. “Don’t Let the Sun Set on You”
• 3. Secondhand (Smoke)
• 4. Highway 407
• 5. History, according to Boy
• 6. Last Portrait as Boy
• Notes
• Acknowledgments
• Funder Acknowledgments
• About the Author