Still Life with Black Boy’s Face Overlaying Project Buildings

By CORTNEY LAMAR CHARLESTON

Hall of Famer Frank Thomas, from 1990 to 2005,
hit 448 home runs over the fence for the White Sox

with the notorious Robert Taylor Homes standing just
beyond ballpark grounds across the Dan Ryan Expressway:

the high-rises, bruises against the city-flag-blue sky,
eyesores. When the last tower came down, I don’t remember

the president, the mayor or any other politician standing
in front of the rubble with a megaphone vowing to get

the ones who did this; incrimination isn’t done quite so
publicly here, plus a project is a project is a project.

Whenever folks rolled to Comiskey, they saw those towers
and thought of G-Baby from Hardball, comedic little black boy

baseball player shot outside a building that looked sort of
just like those; Keanu Reeves’s character was kind of torn up

about the whole thing. Good riddance!—their one Red Line
train of thought, tears in their blue and green eyes. Hood

riddance, too. As we drive past, I glimpse the ghost of my young
face in the car window, overlaying the empty lot with reflection.

It’s a place where many people died but many, many, many more
lived. Those are the folks I identify with: I know what it’s like

to live; I have no idea what it means to die—I guess I’m not black
in that way. I’m, as they say, “blessed and highly favored.”

 

[Purchase Issue 13 here]

Cortney Lamar Charleston is a Cave Canem Fellow and the author of Telepathologies (Saturnalia Books, 2017). His poems appear in Beloit Poetry Journal, Gulf Coast, New England Review, Poetry, River Styx, and elsewhere.

Sunna JuhnStill Life with Black Boy’s Face Overlaying Project Buildings

Related Posts

May 2017 Poetry Feature

GERRY LaFEMINA
Giant shadows of wind, the semis blow by, / bemoaning lost mileage; the drivers / on that mad combination of caffeine, adrenaline, / & speed. The skyline something crossed out— / not a bad word, necessarily, but a right phrase.

Meandering Zone

RACHEL PASTAN
We are barreling north out of Salt Lake City, and David is talking about the clouds. “They don’t look like the clouds in the East,” he says. “They’re uniform, but fuzzy.” Out the window, the topaz sky shimmers over the mountains.

Herd of goats under a tree

Translation

DEMETRI RAFTOPOULOS
From Niko’s balcony, we see a legion of olive trees protecting the Kleftoyiannis mountain. Today they are calm. Like the sea in the distance, an ironed light blue bed sheet.