Loud Looks

You better rap, my brother says—he can b-box his ass off. Got DJ scratches and spins, will drop it on the two and four, the three and four. Whatever you need. Me posing my bars: My flowsare second to none, come here,son. See how it’s done. Wanted to be a rapper? Check. Thought I was going to the NBA? Check. Father went to prison? Check. Brother too? Check. Mother died when I was eight? Check. Hung pictures of Luke Perry on my bedroom wall? What? Yep, give me a bit, and I’ll sprinkle some subjectivity on it. I loved that dude, his whisper-voice, his lean. Auntie worried on the phone:Girl, he got photos of some white boyall over his walls. Me rocking out to Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How It Feels.” Silent head nods do more than throw shade. All black people are fluent in silence. Mangled Baldwin quote? Let’s keep wrenching. Everybody’s fluent in silence. You know what a switchblade glare means. No need to read the look she gave me as I sang, Let me run with you tonight.