The city’s streets are densely shelved with rows of salt and packaged hair. Intent on air, the funk of crave and function comes to blows with any smell that isn’t oil—the blare of storefront chicken settles on the skin and mango spritzing drips from razored hair. The corner chefs cube pork, decide again on cayenne, fry in grease that’s glopped with dust. The sizzle of the feast adds to the din of children, strutting slant, their wanderlust and cussing, plus the loud and tactless hiss of dogged hustlers bellowing past gusts of peppered breeze, that fatty, fragrant bliss in skillets. All our rampant hunger tricks us into thinking we can dare dismiss the thing men do to boulevards, the wicks their bodies be. A city, strapped for art, delights in torching them—at first for kicks, to waltz to whirling sparks, but soon those hearts thud thinner, whittled by the chomp of heat. Outlined in chalk, men blacken, curl apart. Their blindly rising fume is bittersweet, although reversals in the air could fool us into thinking they weren’t meant as meat. Our sons don’t burn their cities as a rule, born, as they are, up to their necks in fuel. Copyright © 2016 Patricia Smith. Used with permission of the author. |
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