This isn’t what I wanted?
when I said I wanted Rome.?
The trees ache from dead weight?
and clouds hang low,?
beaten by the sun, heavy from the earth’s
perspiration.

This isn’t what I wanted?
when I said I wanted Rome;?
I wanted ancient buildings?
crumbling in on themselves romantically.?
I wanted a flock of doves to swoop
effortlessly, stone fountains following them
with cartoonish blue water at the climax?
of my self-discovery.?
I wanted crescent moons,?
cobblestone roads,?
polished marble.

When I said I wanted Rome I didn’t?
know what Rome could be:?
the watermelon capital of the world,?
the home of Bojangles’ Famous Chicken ‘n Biscuits.
I didn’t know the streets were frequented
by militant spirits;?
that the trees wore people like a charm bracelet—?
each new charm another man guilty of the ultimate crime:
being black.

I didn’t know my family tree would take me back
to one in Rome—roots deeply planted in
Blood-soaked soil.?
Didn’t know those circling birds were
singing my family’s death song.
Didn’t know that some of that blood
would become mine.

I wonder if on the Independence Day, 1935?
He looked up at the stars as the thick men with
thick arms slung that thick rope around his neck
and thought of me, thought that someday I’d be looking
at the same stars, asking these questions.?
I wonder if, when his feet left the ground,?
he felt like he could fly.

I wonder if this is what he wanted
when he asked for Rome—?
if he asked for it at all.