When We Lived in Compton
BY KHADIJAH QUEEN
Teenaged boys liked to lean on the hood of my father’s Porsche,
black levis slung below their muscled waists,
crisp white T-shirts with tanks underneath, Jheri curls
oiling the backs of their yokes.
They stayed put when my father, dressed in Armani for his city job,
wavy hair Miami-slick, marched down the stairs rattling his keys.
They turned up their boombox, N.W.A.’s hard-on beats
masking the clip-clip-clip of Ferragamo loafers on pavement.
My father moved toward them, pointing his manicured finger
at the corner of Sloane and Compton as Dopeman, Dopeman
heralds his arrival. He gestured wildly at their sluggish bodies,
and a sudden high pitch meant his voice was breaking.
When they slid from the hood of his prized German silver,
my father shook his head, slammed the door as he plunged
into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and threatened to run them over.
But the boys refused to stumble. In their unlaced Cortez sneakers,
they simply strolled to the right, undivided,
boombox still blasting from their shoulders, as if they knew
where he was headed, knew no reason
they should split themselves apart.
Teenaged boys liked to lean on the hood of my father’s Porsche,
black levis slung below their muscled waists,
crisp white T-shirts with tanks underneath, Jheri curls
oiling the backs of their yokes.
They stayed put when my father, dressed in Armani for his city job,
wavy hair Miami-slick, marched down the stairs rattling his keys.
They turned up their boombox, N.W.A.’s hard-on beats
masking the clip-clip-clip of Ferragamo loafers on pavement.
My father moved toward them, pointing his manicured finger
at the corner of Sloane and Compton as Dopeman, Dopeman
heralds his arrival. He gestured wildly at their sluggish bodies,
and a sudden high pitch meant his voice was breaking.
When they slid from the hood of his prized German silver,
my father shook his head, slammed the door as he plunged
into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and threatened to run them over.
But the boys refused to stumble. In their unlaced Cortez sneakers,
they simply strolled to the right, undivided,
boombox still blasting from their shoulders, as if they knew
where he was headed, knew no reason
they should split themselves apart.
KHADIJAH QUEEN is the author of Conduit (Akashic Books/Black Goat 2008) and Black Peculiar, which won the Noemi Press Book Award for poetry and is forthcoming in fall 2011. Individual poems appear or are forthcoming in numerous journals and anthologies, such as jubilat and Best American Nonrequired Reading (Houghton Mifflin 2010). A Cave Canem fellow, she holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles.