WATCHNIGHT

By Cyree Jarelle Johnson

*Author is an active and respected member of the literary community and has taught workshops at the Poetry Project, for PEN America and Tin House, was a Creative Writing Teaching Fellow at Columbia University and has been involved in Poetry Out Loud and New Jersey Orators. 

*Author is a committed activist—one of the founding editors of Deaf Poets Society, part of the disability justice movement, part of the inaugural sex worker giving circle at Third Wave Fund, an Instruction Librarian at The AIDS Library of Philadelphia FIGHT, a founding member of the Harriet Tubman Collective, and a member of Black Lives Matter (Philadelphia) 

*Author received a BA from Hampshire College and an MFA from Columbia University, as well as participating in the Poetry Foundation Emerging Poets Incubator 

*Author has been a recipient of many grants and accolades including the NEA Fellowship in Poetry; and author’s first book, SLINGSHOT (Nightboat, 2020), won the Lambda Literary Award for gay poetry and was nominated for numerous prizes, including the CLMP Firecracker Award and Queer|Art|Prize.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nightboat Books
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781643622583

Book preview

Requiem

What song to sing in tired times as now

when new sprung shoots are crushed beneath the heels

of time, before they grow? Blossom snipped low

by fate’s callous blade. How that sorrow feels

like opening to the pain of the world.

Wholed by a light at the snuff of your day,

the end to a story impeccably told.

Though now we must trudge an opposite way

stay close to us. The ones we love who’ve gone

on to glory, or horror, or nothing—all

linked, ever in memory. Names etched in bone,

or page, or slates of stone on graveyard sprawl.

Yes, grief is a sored horse that bucks and hurts,

yet we tug the reins and survive the worst.

Now Let the Weeping Cease

After Jericho Brown

After Sophocles

On this land, the weeping time never ceased.

The river is safer than the shore.

The river is safer than the shore

and death is more than a shade who hums back.

My death is a shade that hums back at me.

My ghost hums back across time’s night-vast gap.

Even the thought of a ghost bends time.

In which year is today situated?

Our situation is a spectral year,

a year dreamed as though it were a future.

A future soft as a child’s daydreams.

My childhood daydreams did not feature me.

I could not picture a featured future.

Now I cast shadows with shades and the night.

Watchnight

I love y’all even if you

get on my whole ass nerves.

(But who doesn’t

get on my whole ass nerves?)

Who can get on my whole ass

nerves like you?

And who else would I want to? Pass

that macaroni and cheese

and tell me where the party at.

I don’t care what they play as long as we get

some play. Ok, but why your girl put her hand

in the bacon I cooked for the peas?

Didn’t even wash ’em

with her no home trainin’ ass.

And y’all wonder why

I’m like this. This your company.

Tell your company

that tight blunt is what saved her fingers.

That ain’t cute.

Where? Who gone be there?

How much the Uber?

You know I wanna shake my ass

at the after hours

so we can’t stay at the queer party.

Nothin’ to write home about.

The music didn’t even have words.

I need to sing tonight, something I know.

I’m crossfaded and I’m bouta get mean.

Did you put the other half away for morning?

Eating the Other

After bell hooks

Master … eated me when I was meat

—Vincent Woodard, from The Delectable Negro

Nat Turner’s body is long devoured,

as were mummies and unfortunate men.

I’m sure some slave masters ate their own kin

—caught them off guard, lept up, overpowered

them with a group like some fucking cowards.

They tasted human blood. They killed again.

At the sight of black flesh they eased a grin.

They interred the scraps beneath the flowers

that brightened the plantation door. A horror,

yet also a treat. A slave turned to meat.

If your ship spears no whale choose a martyr,

claim delusion, inhale all you can eat.

The perverse race record never falters:

As you wish, it reads, but don’t waste the feet.

Cadillac

Those dragged along earth’s spine to Savannah

glided back home, miraculous in flight—

rose from the auction block, sweet falsetto

a howl that split a gold road through red sun

that would never open their backs. Perhaps

my ancestor lost her dance steps into the air.

Oh well. Sometimes it be like that. The air

too hot to ride, she says. Yet Savannah

slid below the bodies of friends, perhaps

the women she slept near—but they could fly.

Lacking any reasonable plan, sun

glowering towards her with pinched lips, a falsetto

voice walking from the kitchen, falsetto

through gap teeth, not stealing, sucking the air

forced through her mouth’s pinprick, haloed by sun

glow that swole her life to ruins. Savannah

sold her child from under her skirts. To fly

seemed the pride of a kicked dream, but perhaps

there is something to want even here, perhaps

love or sex or god. Her man: falsetto

in the woods church. She likes that. Still, can’t fly.

Heartbreak Day to gulf or grave, not the air

around her that hovers, spits Savannah

at her as her back bends. Low the red sun

with lips to her neck. Generations sun

glow grew into gold, into rain—perhaps

down the windows of cars to Savannah.

A cadillac—breaks never falsetto,

always shine like buffed leather, cheat