On Legacy as a Fade

After Warsan Shire

My barber maps out my fade in thirds

Wraps the thin white strip around my neck

Points to each emerging gray and says

I see the wisdom there for your son

And his son’s son and his

Future son

Later that night

The future version of myself arrives

In a dream, speaking only

With the eyes we share.

He points to a beautiful but

Stubborn garden

Where our tribe digs up soil with discontent.

My son’s son

From beholding our face

Holds in his palm breathing seeds

Bludgeoning a signal with his lips

To hush, pointing to where

Our bloodline digs against resistance.

The women with whom I share my bed with

Who is not my wife

Awakes me out of cold sweats and this nightmare.

Her love is an autumn tree drying

Into winter leaves and branches.

Our egos sound like a storm.

She says the word family

But all I hear is lightning

From her mouth.