E. Indian RIver

Anthony Negrón

I remember the face of my youth;
Its castoff eyes and dry brows,
Clumsy ears
Intent on finding nuance
Within scenes of obfuscate duality
And disorder, blood-
Soaked streets and carports,
Buicks and beat-down Fords
With unnatural holes where
Natural light shone through,
Suggesting miracles like plate-
Glass windows filled with obsolete
Evidence of white deities and
Prophets 
Who never saw Black Death coming?
In a ghetto
Or honeysuckles in spring,
Their sweet centers giving
Me a sense of Aprils in a better world;
Odorous hope like pollen 
To my nostrils
Spent brass clinking and 
Ringing in the alleyway at my feet
As I clamored ignorantly for more-
The ground seemed like such 
A cruel place.
Scattered grass grown beside needle-
Lined cracks in paved sidewalks
Like veins;
Poisonous blood leading
To the field where I played
As I had my first taste
Of malt, a half-empty Double Deuce I 
Chugged and felt warm
Less alone, vomited
On my shoes, found
Kinship in consequence
When I thought that it was love;
The face of my youth all
Red with bloody error, skin soaked
Boiled and fermented,
Habit a process-
I learned how to die on East Indian River
Where all my firsts 
Took root in my blood.

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Anthony Negron is a Black and Puerto Rican-American poet and disabled Iraq war veteran. He resides in Hampton, Virginia. His poetry is centered around his relationships and processing traumas. He has a BA in English and is currently working on his first poetry collection, Letters To Us. He can be found @shatteredsentimentsva on Instagram.