Americana Stories—Poetry

Two Poems, by Joshua Merchant

The First Gig

we showed up in all Black with streaks of yellow
hornet tongued and hive minded. about our coin
but that day’s currency was respect. Oscar Grant
had just been shot and our eyes were just the same.
spilled. the organizer’s belly? if chloroform had a color.
I, the geek, now geeked up. my elders were equally

tired. in workshops we threw pens in worship. we
kept waiting to hear a voice from God that loved
us back and was left cold in a parking lot that could’ve
been a battle cry for the newly cadaveric playground.
that’s what the Fruitvale Bart station is now, by the way.
a forget-me-not. a forget-me-now and later tangled

in the tastebuds of a 3-pointed championship eyerolled
pass the coliseum to a sunnier disposition. when some
say protest they mean shenanigans. we were with that.
and suddenly, our yellow was cautioned. and everything
about us was the wrong signal: an allegory behind the stage

we created next to the mayor, the police, somebodies’
momma, brother, sister, and grandchildren ironing
the wrinkles on our jeans. straightening creased air-forces.
rolling the lint from our peacoats into the wind for the next
puzzled mind enraged by the risk they themselves must take.

We Ran Through Night

I am fresh out the hospital for the third time
when told they tried to tell my father when I
was old enough to talk and he had already
decided to never listen. when I first see my-
self on tv it is with a bullet through a man
terrified, fighting for his best friend. in the
end she dies too. not before leaving a trail
of breadcrumbs for the police- my first reveal
of personal taste is through Adina Howard, a tape
I found and danced in my room to. I would never
say she’s deceased, instead, I will give you a history
lesson. I will let you know she shook for me
and my father. and I carried his stake in my back
long before he knew to teach me about
the master’s house we turned into a juke joint.

~~~