United States, (b. 1980)
It’s Possible I’m Too Bougie to Be Free
- These negroes keep messaging me,
- attaching pig roast
- invites that request my presence
- when the skewered hog will baste
- in juices of its own,
- of signifying & laughter. In this new-
- new century, we have left the so-called
- plantation cuisine
- behind us. Kale’s green claws
- now grip the American palate (just
- as they enchanted
- our grandmother’s unsung pots &
- recipes). Yet I’m worried I’m missing
- a hint—that pig roast
- might be code secluding the rally
- point where hearts and hands knead
- a strategy for education
- reform, where blk wealth’s meager
- carcass is stewed and stretched, ladled
- onto plates faced with Fannie
- Lou Hamer or Baldwin or Malcolm
- X. I want a plate (in theory), but I don’t
- want to wade into pork’s
- social awkwardness, risk being asked
- what’s wrong? What—you think you
- too good? This meat
- that saturated our elders’ hearts—
- making of their lives incomplete
- meals. I know code
- switching. I know how a song
- do and don’t tell. I’m tired talking
- too. I want in on
- a dark revolt that swings low
- or sneaks up on Uncle Sam like high
- blood pressure. It is
- possible coincidence accounts
- for these pixeled nudges alerting me
- when another pig
- will be undressed by flame.
- Foodies deem it the it protein,
- but maybe we gut
- and roast pigs as idolatry.
- They are sharp animals. Their noses
- can pierce seven
- miles of air for a morsel’s scent
- or un-earth roots and tubers
- like backhoes. Their minds
- catalogue the ingredients of their own
- faces as well as the eyes and auras
- of others—biped or quad
- —in their memories. Keener emotionally
- than the cats and dogs we shelter
- as family. All that power
- yet most pigs live and die penned in steel
- quarters no broader than their bodies.
- I have tasted constriction.
- I know the spirit may be liberated
- through fire. Maybe I want to be
- hog-led to freedom.
- Remember, what sizzles on the spit
- —hog maw, chitterlings and heart
- removed—is not
- the pig. The pig is rutting celestial
- soil seven miles into the future—
- foraging for truffle
- stars it can taste but cannot see.
About the Poet:
Kyle G. Dargan, United States, (b. 1980), is a poet, educator and editor. He earned a BA in English Language and Literature from The University of Virginia and an MFA in Creative Writing from Indiana University. Dargan is currently Associate Professor of Literature and Director of Creative Writing at American University. He is the founding editor of Post No Ills magazine and is a former managing editor of Callaloo.
He has five poetry collections, Anagnorisis (2018), Honest Engine (2015) and three others, all from the University of Georgia Press. His poetry and nonfiction have appeared in Jubilat, Denver Quarterly, The Star Ledger, Ploughshares, Shenandoah, TheRoot.com and other publications. His nonfiction has appeared in The Star-Ledger, Ebony and The Root. His work has been awarded the Cave Canem Poetry Prize and the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award. [DES-07/22]
Additional information:
- Kyle G. Dargan, American Boi – http://www.american-boi.com/
- Kyle G. Dargan’s American University Faculty Page – https://www.american.edu/cas/faculty/kd6017a.cfm