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allegiance
allegiance
allegiance
Ebook104 pages48 minutes

allegiance

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A sharp, haunting, and lyrical collection that attempts to understand what we owe the spaces we inhabit.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 15, 2012
ISBN9780814336199
allegiance
Author

francine j. harris

francine j. harris is a Detroit native whose recent work has appeared in Rattle, Callaloo, and Michigan Quarterly Review and she is the author of the recent chapbook between old trees. She is a Cave Canem fellow, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and is currently a Zell Post-MFA Fellowship recipient at the University of Michigan.

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    allegiance - francine j. harris

    © 2012 by francine j. harris

    Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48201

    All rights reserved

    No part of this book may be reproduced without formal permission

    Manufactured in the United States of America

    16 15 14 13 12      5 4 3 2 1

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    harris, francine j.

    Allegiance : poems / by francine j. harris.

    p. cm.—(Made in Michigan writers series)

    ISBN 978-0-8143-3618-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)—

    ISBN 978-0-8143-3619-9 (e-book)

    I. Title.

    PS3608.A78284A79 2012

    811'.6—dc23

    2011030703

    Designed and composed by Quemadura

    in Apollo and Trade Gothic typefaces

    allegiance

    POEMS BY

    francine j. harris

    WAYNE STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS

    DETROIT

    made in michigan writers series

    general editors

    MICHAEL DELP, Interlochen Center for the Arts

    M. L. LIEBLER, Wayne State University

    advisory editors

    MELBA JOYCE BOYD, Wayne State University

    STUART DYBEK, Western Michigan University

    KATHLEEN GLYNN

    JERRY HERRON, Wayne State University

    LAURA KASISCHKE, University of Michigan

    FRANK RASHID, Marygrove College

    DOUG STANTON

    A complete listing of the books in this series can be found online at wsupress.wayne.edu

    allegiance

    in memory of mary grace johnson, frank johnson and david blair

    And the mirages, the

    mirages—

    I knew what they were

    yet often

    changed my course

    and followed them.

    ROBERT HAYDEN

    . . .names I called you behind your back,

    sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable,

    the names of flowers that open only once. . .

    RICHARD SIKEN

    contents

    Cover

    Copyright

    jumping in

    sift

    costume jewelry

    i live in detroit

    when it’s time to move

    what you’d find buried in the dirt under charles f. kettering sr. high school

    footing, off guard

    flashes—cyan / magenta / yellow

    build us a jesus

    would like to first thank god

    another finger for the wound

    the splashing of the bush

    lost pen

    confessional poetry

    somewhere outside acme, i believe in castles.

    choosing poets, out of town, like choosing a date

    there is always someone. that’s the problem.

    why i haven’t written

    i used to write

    wear metal

    intention

    (i belong to that voice. it owns what i breathe.)

    fume

    you, old meany

    three feet of personal space

    one’s nature

    to the man on the bus

    you can’t remove the city

    crooked teeth

    senses

    what teeth poems ain’t

    documents

    never had to use a gun

    neighbor

    from the bottom

    the road to jackson has orchids

    rub against it, where

    sit with you all night

    midday nap

    feeder

    until it comes

    something in the water

    parturient

    they seem to gather in one park

    between old trees

    addicted to addict

    dickhole and denise

    message from wolfgang my mother left on the refrigerator

    not now

    eight days until your ashes turn one

    roommates

    in case there’s trouble

    blues for a mania

    red is the mess

    katherine with the lazy eye. short. and not a good poet.

    i swear

    allegiance

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    jumping in

    sift

    i am not all water

    nor does the cue ball sink me

    nor the cowboy rope me, nor the monk

    sit through me.

    i am a thousand faces at

    the bottom of the bottom’s gravel. the

    sea-sharpened stones that clink and

    soundlessly shift

    make one.

    and

    i am not all river

    not the sand on the tongue’s first someone

    or even a falling star.

    i am all tooth and nail breaks

    that bitter underwater

    and a million years of sea-smash

    dirt in your eye

    to dig out.

    i am not all nigger:

    a black hole crooning in the night.

    a country song in a deep

    jukebox

    chewed down and rumbling.

    so who decides

    who belongs here

    which tooth should have been kicked out when

    which hole ought to be filled. this

    is what i think:

    every city has a country bar.

    i am not always so tough when i walk in.

    what is rain to the desert

    is just another full mouth in some place like portland.

    and i wonder if there are niggers here in oregon.

    black-out dolls,

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