Tragic Moor
For Paul Robeson
The stupid white bitch in the law office refused
to take dictation from him, and because of that a star
was born, a star with a voice
like sweet gravel. He rocketed like an African god
through the cosmos of Europe, but nestled reverently
in the intimate galaxy of Harlem. Ebony Adonis. Body smoking

like the front end of a New York heat wave, smoking
with the force of a humid moon refusing
to wane. Wider-than-Atlas shoulders, revered
enough to shore up the stars
while he struggled to free they and himself from white gods
who did not value him, love him or care to hear his voice

unless it echoed the voices
of Uncle Tom, Uncle Remus, Uncle Minstrel. The smoke
of those phantom uncles burned as hotly as the godlessness
and the refusal
of the law office bitch. But he never let the stars
fall, dim, or collapse. He sang reverently
and kept the stars softly, reverently,

forcefully in their orbits. The voice:
Old man of the Mississippi, Emperor Jones,
Tragic Moor, superstar
in the extreme who smoked
every stage he sang on...

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