Prelude to Bruise

Saeed Jones

• Éditeur: Coffee House Press
• Année: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781566893848
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: American Poetry

• Jones is the editor of BuzzfeedLGBT and had an enormous audience both there and on social media (10k followers), as well as terrific connections in the poetry world
  
• Jones is a frequent guest of reading series (he headlined the Rumpus/Guernica holiday party with Geoff Dyer) and tireless self-promoter. He has fans, and he likes to get in front of them
  
• Jones' background speaks to so many different communities: he is a gay black Buddhist, raised in the South and California, and his poetry is deeply informed by what all those identities mean as they compete with and support each other
  
• Jones fits in nicely on our list, and should appeal to readers of Patricia Smith (she's a fan of his, and they share a similar slam poetry energy)
  
• The book, unlike much poetry, progresses through time, giving readers somewhat of a narrative to carry them along

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 ...