Romare Bearden, Tomorrow I May Be Far Away

The word collage comes from the French coller,
         to glue. Sticking together is what
we do, exiles assembling ourselves in different

cities, pasting the private history of me
         into the broad story of you: migration
North from dirt yard & wash tub, always the need

for bare feet on packed earth, aching
         to go forth from rural South, though impossible
once and for all to leave it, high seat

of the imagination, knowing what hands remain
         in the window, the moon-shaped nails, a face
with one eye looming, the other turning

inward. One reason for the imagination is
         worship, to conjure into being the beings not
here. Your art is ruthless, Romare. May I call you

that? You’ve rendered us so perfectly, dreamers
         waiting on money for ghost railroads,
for rooms in tenements to open, for traveling

clothes and a decent pair of shoes. To be old
         enough or brave. To escape with the scraps
we have. To save the blue shirt evidence

of sunlight, net of crow & fence. One foot out
         and one foot in, pieces stuck in competing
patterns: a far-seeing, forlorn hint of sky-

scraper making the shape of your nose.
         Slipping on its echoes. God! It’s all that
waiting. If we could put on the blackbird wing’s

red epaulets, we’d fly away and be at rest
         from all the longing that lets light dapple us.
The woman reaching through the window is always

trying to hold us, trying to hold us back.