Daddy
taught me to merengue
when I was three
The rhythms blurred
with the Motown do wop
a salsa and Fingertips cacophony
Instead of Marin
there was Coleman's
slant-eyed, cocky grin
and the low-down
rumble of his African
laced with black bottom cadence
covering the rolling r's
and labia-loaded lengua
de Boricua
Swallowed whole
como un pez
done backstroked thru the Bermuda Triangle
grazed the Hudson Bay
and breast-stroked around the Great Lakes
to sun on the banks of the Detroit River
The lure still caught on my uvula
pulling me forward
in a Temptation strut,
a Supreme swivel
hips loose and mouth open
a wet note, caught, and reeled in
do wa, do wop
the hesitant swish and clip
of the serrated gourd and scraper
urge the beat on
the undercurrent, a cupped palm
splayed fingers
pounding the tight skin
of a tall drum
like the hard snap
of young black men's fingers
in front of corner stores
on 12th Street
before the fires
do wa, do wop,
swish
a canto for decades of overcoming
covered by smoldering Bushes,
and bumbling Fords
who yielded
blackened hulls and ghosts
that sing falsetto
as each building is razed
to open spaces,
hosts to phantom teepees and
red women, like the Taino
squat before huge mortars
grinding grain
their translucent figures
mingled with oil drum fires
and old young men in rags
who warm their calloused hands
over acrid smoke.
