2 Poems by Raphael Jenkins

Raphael prefers to go by Ralph, as he feels it suits him better and he’s heard every Ninja Turtle joke ever uttered. He is a native of Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Kentucky with his Boo-thang and their four-year-old boy. He is a chef by day and an essayist, poet, screenwriter in his dreams. He, like Issa Rae, is rooting for everybody Black. His work has been featured (or is forthcoming) on his mama’s fridge, his close friends’ inboxes, Hobart, 3 Elements Review, HASH Journal, Frontier Poetry, and All Guts No Glory. Follow him on twitter: @RALPHEEBOI

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I wish Jordan Peele could have released Get Out 400 years ago


                                                                      to serve as a warning to all the
                                                             humans who would          become
                                                 niggers, to let them know they have
                                        reason to fear the arriving ships, to
                            let them know our bodies are honey-
                   laced diamonds ripe for pillaging,
           to prove the drinking gourd
     won’t lead us               home,
to show them our blood still
waters the        cottonseeds,
      to help them choose Olokun’s
           mouth over this land of loss, as their
                    savior won’t know us, their fields will
                              choke us, our tongues will be blanched
                                          in bleach, their law will disembowel
                                                     us, their dreams will wring us broken,
                                                             our cities will wail as tinder, and
                                                                           we’ll never be done     drowning
                                                                                        in their western civilization






Grandpa’s Detroit #1


A shack deep in a thick wood of elm becomes a sanctuary
when duh moon high. Mistuh Bandleaduh counts off
somethin’ swingin’ in A-minuh & duh prettiest gals
you ever seen, conk-laid cats in arm, high-step
onto duh dance floor in ten-dollah suits and handmade
gowns danglin’ ovuh sticky tiles. Duh brass gallops
along wit ‘em, one trumpeter is sweatin’ but leanin’
on his horn, makin’ it bark somethin’ wild.
He make it swang round duh room like a loose firehose.
He give duh music all duh winds in his body.
Doctuh Bass-man pluck his walk in 3/4 while Piano Jim
teach duh keys how to keep duh people feets on fire. Duh sweet
name of Jesus ain’t too much called out in’nis church, but duh’kasional
Lawd a’mercy!! sho’nuff will get heaved up to duh smoky rafters
when duh horns’ wangin’ & Mistuh Bandleaduh’s
raspy holla’ touch on someone just right, make em’ sing
back. Dis a holy experience, got all duh same moans & spite
as dem hymns duh fields taught our folk, but we swapped
the blood in ‘em wit beans & hot watuh co’nbread,
added some jazz & built us up a house to hide it all in.
                                          You wudda loved it, boy.