Matthew E. Henry (MEH)

they told me to pray for him,
for his success. that doing otherwise
was like rooting against the pilot
while sitting on the plane—

no. he weren’t no kin of mine. not my pa or grandpa. no grey-headed uncle neither. just some drifter mister Henry paid to be painted, same as me. but he was told to really teach me how to pluck and strum—told it made it “more authentic.” so I set there listenin’ to one mumble ‘bout

my dears, i love you because a hot comb never dared to look you in eye. because your lives are always in autumn—a crisp, stern season of self-awareness. because you stroll through the background radiation of racial anxiety without a hazmat suit. because you have desired to be darker and lighter, invisible, yet star-shine. because