"Ode to the man who leaned out the truck to call me nigger."
Before I met you, before you leaned out the truck window
to call me nigger, I knew nothing of my own flesh's
surrender to blood, dust.
But I did know speed.
I knew the weight of lumber and the forearm's debt to torque.
I knew, and loved, the sound of shattering glass,
the quick snap of a duressed jaw.
I knew the taste of my own blood.
I'd had a fist test the tension of my kneecaps, my heart's
tight buckle.
What you taught me as I leaned out
the window, New York speeding by at 50 miles an hour,
to catch you, was about the song of the air at night.
How-- as I braced my foot against the dash and limboed
out to swing at your windscreen--
I craved the tympani of glass and metal,
the soprano of your screams.
So easily, I could have fallen under your truck's wheels.
I was in search of love, and somehow
knew you had it to give in blood,
which I needed to husband my quiet, quiet rage.
I had not thought then about how I wanted my body disposed,
that I loved a woman to call me names in bed.
I wanted a song that was mine, something to belong to,
a love I'd recognize when I heard
my name sung in the street.
[APPLAUSE]