The City Song of Lucy Brown
Black tires rolling. Bus almost empty. Nobody much to mind my singing – just singing a little song. Singing a little steam song about sweet fish, white rice, Marcene’s pineapple sauce. Just singing my song – don’t pay any mind, ice-blue eyes, don’t pay any mind.
Now look, now see, why’d you have to go on staring at me. Now here I go, singing that other one, that city song – singing about red sky, burnt tires, broken glass in the soles of my feet. Now I’ve got this city song jangling inside of me like knives that are never going to leave.
Got to find my sweet country song, got to get back to Lafayette. Sweet song brings me brown fields, hot August grass. Home. Sitting in August grass. Got a paper plate propped on my knees, got grease stains on my knees, got a full belly, got Marcene.
There now, here’s my song, the one I want. I’m singing about Marcene, round and strong, Marcene in a summer dress. She gives me a shove, says I’m too young. Singing about Marcene’s white teeth, thick purple skin of a plum. She takes all the fruit then rolls the pit on her tongue, sucking and laughing till all the juice is gone.
Marcene, she was made for plums, but Henry, he’s got his narrow eye and his long gun. Marcene says that Henry, she says that Henry will shoot an angel down if I don’t squeeze my eyes tight-shut, don’t-let-in-the-light-shut. Don’t want to see feathers floating, falling to the ground. Got to close my eyes and sing, but only when these bus tires are rolling, rolling, rolling. Got to be rolling along if I’m going to sing my song.
Hold on, hold on, hold on. Bus is stopping. Bus man getting out of his seat, coming toward me. Why you got to stop, bus man, why you got to come for me? I’ve got to be moving, got to get home to Henry and Marcene, got to get something to eat. Hot sandwiches – Henry, he promised me. Gray-pants bus-man, why won’t you see, why won’t you drive me home to Henry?
Why you got to talk, why you got to touch? I can stand on my legs, I can move my feet. No need to shove me along, no need, no need. See, I can go down steps all by myself. See me going down, see me going down, see how good I go down.
Going down with hands on my back, got white-hot bus-man hands on my back, got sidewalk sizzling under feet, got glass poking inside me where ribs should be. I don’t mind the glass – I just don’t like the heat. Got to walk on grass, walk on cool green grass or sharp brown grass that leads to Lafayette.
Where’s my lunch going to come from now? Got to eat got to eat got to get out of this heat – got to have my sandwiches, the ones Henry said he’d make me, those tall sandwiches thick with meat. Got to have some meat, got knives under skin, got knives inside of me.
But hey now, who’s this? Who’s this, up there in the sky, winking at me? Must be you, sunshine, smiling and winking, all dressed up like Marcene. Must be you whispering, saying there’s food just behind that pretty little gate up the street. Just a pretty little gate, pretty white gate. Doesn’t even creak, this gate of mine. No, she’s a shy gate. Shy gate swings open real easy, shy gate, she’s whispering to me, says see those berries under that tree, gate says that ripe fruit is all for me. Dark red berries hiding under leaves. Peek-a-boo – that fruit’s growing just for me, growing, glowing just for me.
On my knees, on my cool wet knees, dark earth smells like me, smells like me when my hands are just clean. Got blood on my hands now, berries bleeding on me, bleeding clean red juice sweet as Marcene’s singing.
Can almost remember my sweet song, kneeling under this tree, can almost taste it like a plum, can almost sing. But something’s wrong. I can feel it coming, feel it coming, something red and mean – fire heat, police, mouth of a gun, nine one one, numbers in red ink. Want to sing my country song, my sweet old song – you know the one. Why won’t it come, why won’t it come? Siren song, sizzling, screaming city song, all that’s in my ears.
