October 25, 2017

Cameron Barnett

NEW FRUIT HUMMING

after Iron & Wine

I’m here to say sorry.
Because you definitely said splotchy.
Because I definitely heard splotchy,
because I definitely told everyone about
how you said splotchy with your eyes cast down,
and everyone said “Ain’t that some shit!” because
who the hell talks about their kids like that?
So I’m here to say sorry.
Because I told the story wrong, which is to say
I didn’t stay silent, which isn’t to say I told you
the truth, because the truth can look like a second
chance, and a second chance is just a hesitation
hesitating too long, and it took too long to get
our story straight, and what I really said was
“I know …” or “Yeah …” and took a bite
of the pear in my hand because we were under
an apple tree, and you brought pears, and I thought
“How strange is this,” never doubting the taste
in my mouth, never doubting what I tasted
wasn’t the flesh of the fruit, never admitting that
to you because I loved you, and you loved me
so we never made demands and we never agreed,
we just lied and lied and lied—and I’ve lied
about this story before; we weren’t in bed
because we were definitely under an apple tree
as much as an apple tree can be a bed, and
it was definitely hotter than August though the sun
said April, and you said “It just worries me,”
and now I’m here to say sorry.
Because I was wrong to believe you were afraid
of anything, because my blackness wasn’t anything
to be afraid of, because my blackness wasn’t anything
to you. I don’t tell people we were under a tree because
a bed is a better place to lie, or a better place to lay,
because I still mix up laying and lying, because the story
is still so mixed up I don’t know if it even matters
because I loved you, and you loved me,
and we both got stuck, so we both went free,
because forgiveness is an act of retelling,
and forgiveness is an act of retelling,
and forgiveness is an act of retelling.
When I think back on that day I start to cry
not because I’m sad, but because my left eye
and my right eye can’t put you together, and it hurts
to try because you were so mixed up, because
you were so afraid of us mixing, and that’s why
we were under a tree and not in a bed, and that’s
why my blackness is afraid of nothing, and that’s
why it’s so hard to lie sometimes, and I’d be lying
if I said I’m sorry because I loved you, and you
loved me, and now there’s new fruit humming
in the old fruit tree.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

[download audio]

__________

Cameron Barnett: “I’ve lived in Pittsburgh ever since my family moved here in 1996. My parents grew up here but my siblings and I were all born in California—but I credit being raised in Pittsburgh with turning me into the person I am today. Pittsburgh is often associated with blue collar grit, and this still rings true though our steel mills have fallen silent. For me, grit is an ancestral quality of this city. I come from a lineage of black Americans who escaped slavery and Jim Crow and made it to Pittsburgh, only to fight and desegregate and integrate this city during the Civil Rights era of the ’50s and ’60s. In particular, my grandfather Bishop Charles Foggie stands out as a fighter and champion of liberty. I take his legacy as a family torch to be carried, and this informs my writing. My poems largely have to do with race and family, as well as how those two things intersect in my own personal relationships. Pittsburgh is a city that is at once progressive and antiquated, and this is indicative of the Rust Belt—always seeking to get ahead, but hesitant to cast off the past too quickly. This struggle shaped my family, my childhood, my education, and shapes my poetry today.” (website)

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January 23, 2017

Cameron Barnett

THEATER OF AMERICA

for Michael Brown

I want to give you the silence of snow and let it melt
into you. I want to take your name and skywrite it
in permanent marker, then let the rain tattoo you everywhere.
This is what to do with black bodies. In the theater of America,
fire sprinklers are covering everything in shallow pools.
I want to give you a monsoon instead—it’s the safest waters
where most drown.

In the theater of America there are none so blind
as those who will not see color. They fill the aisles,
tongues wrapped in Gadsden flags. This is what they do
with black bodies: fill them with lead, let them fall,
let them sink, let them float in thin puddles. Even if
I could crush this theater inside my fist, I would
feel the small hammering of people rebuilding already.

And what is left of you? What about black bodies?
Your home is the rock of Sisyphus; your story is a book
the blinded are placing on a shelf in a library they have
never been to; yours is the prodigal play in which black
sons do not return home. Your body rests on the apron
of the stage. And somewhere in the mezzanine I hear a whisper
sailing like fishing line over still water: Blackness is always
knowing where you are, but never knowing where you’re from.
And from the rafters an echo: Blackness is always knowing
… never knowing.

from Rattle #54, Winter 2016

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__________

Cameron Barnett: “I’ve always had a fascination with storytellers. One late October night in high school I got out of the shower and, feeling I needed to give myself some big life project, began writing an autobiographical novel. That’s the night I became a writer. In college I moved from fiction to poetry because I wanted to tell stories faster and give them more of a punch. And as long as I can write poems, I will always be a storyteller.” (link)

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