I.

Inside an economy apartment in Kansas City, circa 1948,
sitting in a decrepit crib, a girlchild had soul in her eyes—
pixie ears listening to a radio insisting

“Katz Drug Store now has bacon!”

The child who could not speak her name, repeating this
news to Bill Smith, her dad’s best friend, Her dad
who called her Titi— inhaled so many Camels.

In synchronicity, Titi reveled like a third leg
on a well-honed stool.

II.

A child and her doll are one. Her own chocolate doll—
was what she craved.

What would parents prefer— the rag, the stuffed, or the
plastic doll. The rough, the soft, the hard. The curl in her
obsidian hair or the emeralds in her eyes.

The wonder in Titi’s pink lips blossoming— like Mimosa
framing her window, or the tenderness
in her up-turned nose.

Nuzzling her doll, or giving her tea in the spiky ends
of her small ears.

III.

Titi loved to watch her dad pacing to and fro, smoking,
moving to the sound of Charlie Parker on the turn table.
Growing up in Kansas City— Cradle of Jazz, where her
dad’s spectrum of kaleidoscopic moods swirled.

Oh! You musicians of New Orleans and New York,
do you not know ragtime, bebop, or what’s in the
middle between 18th and Vine?
Why do you imagine only once-famous tunes?

Don’t you see how mystery was buried, unseen—
deep in lives of all the souls who knew it.
Souls recalled cutting remarks, stunning insights—
yet Titi knew we were involved in what was known.

IV.

When we left the place of the cradle, to move into
the GI Bill house, feeling it fly out of sight— breathless
with wanting— Count Basie— Joe Turner implicated.
Within a year, the little house was vacated along

With jazz. Although Indianapolis was full of music
in the duplex they rented—

Titi learned to cross railroad tracks to kindergarten,
escaping the company of larger rats.

Within the vision of Titi, untethered from her former
homes, even the teachers of the midwest would throw
down their gauntlets.

The fifties arrived, so Fords were abundant.

V.

Titi’s grandparents taught rhythms old as heartbeats,
sang truth in songs others wouldn’t dare. At times,
Titi’s family felt a sense seized them— confusion of
silhouettes— of strivings made way for others.

VI.

Days, nights until wine of spirit started flowing—
Blood Red. Titi’s dad parked the Ford in Tulsa—
he needed to tell his daughter something.
A sign for Greenwood appeared.

Her dad mentioned a massacre— happened
year he was born — 1921. Black Wall Street—
most wealthy black community in America,

At the time— 10,000 citizens left homeless—
attack by ground— The only assault by plane
until Pearl Harbor. No one talked about it.

Oklahoma school curriculum didn’t mention
the massacre until twenty years after Titi’s dad
died— Mass graves are still undeciphered.

VII.

Three vultures with lacy wings circled around Titi’s family
one last languid time— soaring in a circle of power, of
grace. Titi’s dad following their moves through black

Binoculars, breathing softly, pacing endlessly with the
Camels. Titi loved the elevated flight of vultures—
entranced by ascension— climbing mountain tops not in

Her purview. Her father— a man at one with earth’s
cycles. Titi had so many questions left— unanswered—
twinkle in both eyes, or how he wrinkled them
to wink at those he saw.

Elm Trees fell that day covering the land with golden rapture.

VIII.

99 miles from Tulsa to Oklahoma City. Inevitably, Titi’s
dad’s keen senses trembled, silently marking passage
as the Ford intertwined a stark landscape
choking with mirth, with loss.

Do spirits who honor generosity, notice how wind releases brilliant leaves? Anytime to pray, feeling Titi’s zeal pulse
through her breath, immersed in wonder.

IX.

The odor of Han’s restaurant overwhelmed
the family as they pulled into the parking lot
in Oklahoma City. It was midnight all day long,
feasting— ribs, sweet potato pie for everyone.

The sky would fall as soon as it rained. Titi fell
asleep near the grill Han’s had built, for comfort,
to take away the pain.

She dreamt of shanty towns and vultures, venerable
creatures. Titi was told their hallowed purpose
of taking what is good

X.

From what no longer lives, consecrating
with epicurean delight. Her dad blessed
the dynamic beat of Lester Young along

With the sacred sound of intensity.
Titi could fathom her dad’s astute
aspect, knowing she could perceive.

XI.

1959— Titi’s dad navigating Volkswagen Bug
to Constitution Hall, hoping to hear the Boston
Symphony, reflecting on each sparkling note.

Titi made it until intermission, saw twin white
enamel— water fountains— two signs
indicating white— colored. Her eyes —

Gleaming, radiant—paralyzed hypnotized,
Titi pulled her father’s arm to refuge outside.
A sliver of moon slipped behind a shadow
in a maple tree.

XII.

She would not go there again. Years later, Titi wrote an
editorial welcoming the first young woman integrating
her school. Among ball point pens, the spirit moving

Towards harmony was Titi’s. Her words were seen
by beings with red heads, black and white bodies.
Announcing their noisy hateful conflicts, she who

Would relieve them, stood thoughtful, listening.
Titi blessed the balm of language. She knew
its secrets. Oh! You who worship what matters,
stop to pray and feel.

XIII.

Years later, the balm of words abandoned Titi. Her father
had packed both cars out front of the split-level house in
McLean. The sun bore its rays those weeks in October.

Its generosity went unnoticed as Titi gazed upon leaf—
after— leaf dance in the breezeway. Titi saw clouds
silently shifting— dad revealed the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Titi’s soul ambled in night to the sound of his deep
voice reciting his possible destination — a bunker in
Richmond. The news was startlingly cool— like the
yellow of butter on the edge of a table knife.

Titi asked could she come along— her dad silent.
Outside a sliver of the moon slipped behind
a shadow in the sycamore tree.

Titi would never know the answer. Close call —
the mighty madness of the bomb, left Titi flipped,
flailing in a realm of uncertainty.

XIV.

On the evening of her 21st birthday, Titi was at college,
Dozing, far-gone, dreaming inside starry points of joy,
when moonlight’s mad surge revealed a group of
motley friends

Suggesting merrily she spent a not-so-silent night in a bar.
Among them, within her ever sharpening swords of fright,
Titi pushed through a dirty sliding door, heard brash voices

Of those who mocked the gruesome end of Martin
Luther King. Screaming, running outside, finding
spells of slumber stealing the darkness—

Burning the city of our lament.