Issue
#1

January
2009

a poem by Misti Rainwater-Lites

A Black Man in the White House

I tell my husband that I am blacker than Obama.
I tell my husband I ate a lot of fried pork chops.
My butt was thoroughly whipped with cowboy belts
and slapped with fly swatters.
My mom made me walk across our dark government subsidized
apartment complex to take care of the laundry.
She ignored my anxious plea: My friends say a creepy man
hangs out down there!
Mama didn't take no mess.
She worked from nine to five to support three kids
with no help from Fred Rainwater…
all up in a red headed hussy's Kool-Aid in Sleazyana.
My husband is not from rural Texas.
The words "nigger" and "white trash" were not ingrained
in his baby brain.
He was raised on meatloaf and milk,
not Malt O Meal and Sunkist.
He wasn't dunked in water five or six times
to wash the sins away.
He didn't have Rapture nightmares
and shopping mall panic attacks: If I lose Mama
in the crowd I'll be all alone. Who will take care of me?
I tell my husband that I am blacker than Obama,
I'm tired of the tears splashed on every station
and the mentions of Martin Luther King, Jr. and colored drinking fountains
and the poems of Maya Angelou
and the glowing recommendation from Oprah.
I don't see a dream coming true.
I don't see a rainbow promise realized.
I see a wealthy good-looking man and more of the same.
I see a lot of naïve motherfuckers with limited vocabularies.
My husband tells me not to talk politics with him.
He lays down on the couch. Closes his eyes.
While he watches the victory on CNN
I am reading the poetry of James Tate.
I am wearing the racist brand because I am not jumping up and down.
I tell my husband we finally have a human being in the White House
after several years of sociopathic robots.
Some good
may come
from that.

© Misti Rainwater-Lites

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