BINK$ WIN$TON is a new hip hop artist originally from Oakland, CA. His independent brand, Dolla Bill Entertainment, is also part of a larger media network of artists and producers (Cali House).

Loaves and Fishes

At home, the cabinet was almost bare
I didn’t think we had enough to share:
one loaf of unsliced bread made with palm oil—
orange-yellow, the shade of marigolds—
and one small tin of Geisha mackerel.

My parents gave all their money away
to others who needed it more than they;
they didn’t keep enough to pay the price
at market for a chicken, yams, and rice—
at ten, I disapproved, thought them unwise.

We gathered bitter leaves of sweet roselle
to heat up with the bony mackerel—
we used a spatula to scrape the tin.
My father said grace before we began:
“For these and all our many blessings, thanks.”

The simple stew surprised me with its taste—
it was delicious—and although I ate
all I could hold, used bread to sop the plate,
when we were done, the cook-pot still held more;
there was enough to store as leftovers.

NB: This poem was first published in the chapbook Returning to Awe (Balkan Press, 2014).

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Failed Conversation with the Owner of the Rig

There is not enough water—
people are desperate with thirst.
They dig holes in the dried
surface of the river-bed, place
small plates and shallow
bowls into the mud beneath,
gather every bit of moisture
they are able, every drop
that seeps over the lip and leaks
into the vessel.

It does not help, it does not
quench their thirst to know
that down the road, less than
seven miles from where they
wait for water, there is a compound
with a gate, a deep well drilled
with equipment larger than
the handmade picks and shovels
they have at their disposal.

There is water plenty
behind that six-foot fence,
not just access to enough, but
madness-inducing excess,
so much that children raised
within that compound
have a pool, are given lessons
how to swim.

But isn’t that reasonable? He
tries to justify the lessons to me.
If they can afford to fill a pool
and teach their kids to swim,
then let them. They are parents.
Isn’t it their responsibility to give
their children any education
that makes them more self-
sufficient, might protect them
in the future, might prevent
their accidental death by
drowning?

But what of other parents
beyond the fence? I ask—
What of their children, the ones
who are dying right now
of dehydration? Wouldn’t it be
better to share the water, help
them, use that huge equipment,
dig more wells?

And then the answer comes: It’s
not my responsibility, it’s not
my problem. It’s expensive to run
that equipment, you’re not going
to see me spend that much of my
money digging wells for people
who aren’t family.

My words have failed, my
knowledge—useless. I cannot
bring water. I cannot get us what
we need, even though I see enough
justice just beneath the surface
that everyone could drink.

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SAVE ME

Please take care of me, Anna.

There’s a storm on the horizon,

as wild, as swirling, as primal as a Turner painting

Thunder’s a certainty. Lightning more so.

It could bring rain or hail or even snow.

My current status is that of abject fear.

I can’t just sit here, passing off the world

with my most blessed indifference.

when it’s about to spin in some

uncontrollable vortex, turn upside down.

bluster tempestuously, burn and flood,

shatter or smother.

I’ll be King Lear before all this is over,

out in the midst of it, howling madly.

Look, my face is pale, my brow, my cheeks,

crunch my eyes together.

The blanket across my knees shakes.

My knees thump like braking train-cars.

And all you can do is ask, “Is something wrong?”

When the storm’s passed, then I’ll know.

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Mamma

Goddamn jack in the box

face popping up with that clown smile

bloody bloody

I pressed you down so long.

smile again like you did when I told you stories,

little boys who fought

monsters not mothers. I pushed you out

now I push you down.

Pouts of lips and the swings in my hits

That’s mamma, the one with the boy toys,

the one who plays with knives,

who left cuts on your hands like kisses.

The last man took me away

to the cabin with the bed and only the bed.

There wasn’t room for three, boy.

We downsized, started with the baby.

He cried so much when I held him I had to

Don’t say I failed again,

I taught you what I knew.

Protect yourself.

I shot you down

with milk can guns, white whirled.

I shelled you with beans,

dragging you along til you lost me.

I climbed up on a ledge above a house built into the crumbling granite of a California mountain,

with a few friends,

To collect a ration from my allotment of teenage infinity,

My feet sank into the powdered dirt of undeveloped land, carrying a cascade of biting oak leaves,

A charging cavalry into my ankles,

I clutched a fence as though it hung a hundred feet up,

Until we reached the precarious solace of concrete, and sat to soak in the wash of lights,

Little clouds, little but thick, came roaring on my left, an in a moment tapered from me, until the

Toxic cleavage of brain from boy welled up through my neck so that elevation became flight,

Clouds under a cloudless sky – not smoke, but vapor – that’s the future below us,

A hand upon a shoulder, a laugh against a wall, lightless hills shining with black absence,

And below them the patchwork yellow quilt of iridescent distance,

I thought of the light: “There’s an awful lot of sodium down there. If I had it all, a rock, I would throw it into the sea and duck behind thick Plexiglas, five thousand feed above the world, to watch the howling blast in all its brevity.”

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