I wrote a poem once

that I called “Machete.” It was angry

 

because I was angry

when I wrote it, angry over

 

white supremacy

and blah blah blah. It’s okay

 

if you haven’t read it

because it only had one machete

 

in it and everyone knows

a poem with multiple machetes

 

always trumps

a poem with a single one.

 

Can we reclaim that word yet?

You know the one

 

I’m talking about.

Don’t make me say it again.

 

So if you’re one of the few

billion people who hasn’t

 

read my machete poem,

the recap goes like this:

 

a single machete,

gold and shiny,

 

descended from the Aztec

heaven of jaguars

 

and naked women

on flea market paintings...

 

That joke was going to be

longer, but I can’t

 

keep a straight face

for more than six lines,

 

even when the lines

are as short

 

as these are.

The truth is

 

that poem was about

weaponizing my smile

 

by giving it a sharp blade

to slice all the white

 

supremacists

inside that poem,

 

the ones who

I made dance

 

like fields of cane.

Notice I implied just then

 

“my poem did this,

and my poem did that,”

 

instead of saying

I was responsible

 

for those choices

that felt right, and still do.

 

That poem does contain one lie

that I feel bad about,

 

which is silly,

because what poem doesn’t

 

contain a lie or two?

Even so, this one bothers me

 

so here’s my confession:

at the end of that poem

 

I said that I drink coffee.

I don’t. Never have.

 

Why don’t you drink coffee?

people always ask.

 

I don’t like the taste.

is what I say, and that,

 

well, that’s a truth

you can carve on my headstone

 

without disturbing my sleep.

What has kept me up

 

for months now

is the feeling that I forgot

 

to put something

in that single machete poem.

 

I’ve sat cold in my burrow,

washing my whiskers,

 

tuning my ears

to the gentle footfalls

 

of that feeling

that has been stalking me

 

for days and days.

I didn’t know

 

what it was until I heard

Chen Chen read

 

in snowy Vermont.

His dark jacket and pants

 

were pinstriped

like a cage for the soft leopard

 

shirt he wore.

I don’t think

 

I had seen him

since we had been teammates

 

for the Poetry World Series

with Erika M.

 

and even though we won

the game, the real victory

 

came while we waited,

on the corner of Crosby

 

and Houston,

for the crosswalk signal,

 

when he and I decided

we would go west

 

to Miss Lily’s

and the group

 

could go where it wanted

because we didn’t want

 

a sports bar,

because we didn’t want

 

American food,

because we didn’t want

 

to take orders

from the white woman

 

we didn’t know

who put herself in charge

 

of the group that night.

Now I’m not saying

 

she was a white supremacist

but she was wielding

 

something heavy and blunt

and invisible.

 

And really, shame on her

for forgetting

 

that just ten minutes before

our team had bested

 

that all-star lineup

of Melissa S. and Adrian M.

 

and Erika S.

after nine close innings.

 

Couldn’t she see

we all had crowns?

 

Chen, do you remember

how everyone smiled

 

and said they’d join us

when we said we were going

 

our own way?

Maybe they tapped

 

into their inner cats

in that moment

 

and could smell the jerk chicken

and the fried plantains

 

already sizzling

a short half mile away.

 

Do you remember

the size of my eyes

 

when I whispered

that we had passed

 

Cuba Gooding, Jr.

on the way to our  booth?

 

I know, I know,

Show me the money!

 

is the quote from Jerry Maguire

everyone remembers,

 

but for me it’s always been

the thing Cuba’s character says

 

about “kwan,”

how, “It means love,

 

respect, community, and dollars,

the entire package...”

 

And I know if we talk

about kwan in the poetry world

 

then the dollars part

becomes a punchline,

 

which is okay,

because laughter is what I forgot

 

to put in that  poem

with the single machete.

 

You reminded me

anger can also be funny

 

when I heard you read

that poem about cats,

 

or was it the one about dogs,

and this was a truth

 

I had always known,

or at least something I had

 

known for a very long time

but had forgotten

 

the day I sat down

to write my smile

 

into a machete

I could use

 

against my enemies.

But you and your poems

 

broke the stillness

of that cold night

 

in a chapel

I’m not sure

 

was ever meant

for laughter

 

and so I stepped

out of my burrow,

 

smiling, just as I did

this morning

 

when I woke from a dream

in which I was a housecat.

 

I was a tortie

and with every step

 

my legs grew longer

and my shoulders

 

churned

like the discs of a plow

 

under my skin

that was now golden

 

like the color of wet

limestone.

 

I stretched taller

and longer

 

until my teeth

and legs and claws,

 

even my tail

that was now as long as my body,

 

all felt lethal

like machetes.

 

I’d forgive anyone

who seeing me like this

 

said I was a “beautiful

death machine”

 

like Karen the cougar

in Talladega Nights,

 

a role that was played

by two mountain lions

 

named Dillon and K.C.

who liked to roll around

 

in the grass

between takes.

 

I like to think

“I’m a beautiful life machine,”

 

but I know

that will be a hard sell

 

for some readers

because this is now

 

a poem filled with many machetes

and how can a reader

 

ever tell when I’m

being angry-funny

 

or funny-angry

if they won’t cast off

 

their clothes

and embrace that wild

 

inner-something

that roams inside

 

all of us and join me

over a pile of spare ribs,

 

our lips smacking,

stripes of sauce

 

on our cheeks,

not unlike how it was

 

in the beginning

for our species

 

before we had words

for what a life was

 

or someone to say

we must change it.