I.
what is black creation?
The inquiry poised
like waiting palms
above the keyboard’s
tonal teeth.
when you press
finger firm
to key
what do you feel
pushing back up against you? what
sends our skin cells
spiraling? what soothes the strain
the silkiest serotonin
tunes tugging at
temples in
tired tempos?
of the yamaha
one evening.
its skeleton sings out
to me. I sink life
into it. my own spine
prostrated in a gentle
plead. we move incessant
in parallel. one works
the other’s body in,
wills it to be
corporeal.
when my hand finds its familiar hold
between ebony and ivory
I feel nothing.
or rather, I feel like nothing again.
when you create
something. you fashion something
into existence.
you are told:
you are not here.
you are no matter
/you were born empty
but that is no matter/
but what you make
persists. it is undeniable.
it is proof, a living,
unfolding memory
once created, it can never be
destroyed.
what I mean to say is
II.
what is creation?
dust to dust.
I disappear into
the measure I am making
you can be heard
but not seen.
III.
CREATION IS BLACK.
I exit time
into space. I remember
nothing. when gasless,
gaping darkness was
not haunting
and the color black was called
possibility.
no one has ever rebuked
possibility. I learn my old names
infinite, blinking to life like
constellations, each one
brimming with immeasurable
potential. I exit
myself on flighted chords
I remember who I was
/ that I was nothing
before I was taught
that nothing was my name/
I take the divine rite of passage
I spin loose melodies
into my cool grasp
like a protostar
when you learn to create life
it doesn’t matter
that your dark hands
play maker
