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On Legacy as a Fade
After Warsan Shire
My barber maps out my fade in thirds
Wraps the thin white strip around my neck
Points to each emerging gray and says
I see the wisdom there for your son
And his son’s son and his
Future son
Later that night
The future version of myself arrives
In a dream, speaking only
With the eyes we share.
He points to a beautiful but
Stubborn garden
Where our tribe digs up soil with discontent.
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My son’s son
From beholding our face
Holds in his palm breathing seeds
Bludgeoning a signal with his lips
To hush, pointing to where
Our bloodline digs against resistance.
The women with whom I share my bed with
Who is not my wife
Awakes me out of cold sweats and this nightmare.
Her love is an autumn tree drying
Into winter leaves and branches.
Our egos sound like a storm.
She says the word family
But all I hear is lightning
From her mouth.
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Wallace Lane is part of The Baltimore Banner's Creatives in Residence program, which amplifies the work of artists and writers from the Baltimore region.
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