Three Poems

By Tiffany Troy

THIS

I specialize in disappointing

people I love, coughing

behind closed doors

because my sloth and mental weakness

allowed the plague to fall.

Master says, “Say something.”

I try to mouth:

“Why are you like this?”

Master says, “Be clear, what is this?”

I say, “This,” as in “this,” gesticulating wildly

as he comes closer. I’m sad

I’ll admit, being judged guilty too soon 

by a myopic god who’s fuming.

But what excuse this time?

All I want is for him to stop 

and leave me alone in the self-hate 

he has so successfully cultivated

as I lay like a ragged doll 

on white linen I hate for being washable

and hence salvageable.

I raise my folded arms to cover my head

but in truth my god needn’t strike. 

I’m dizzy enough by 8:20 from all the blank

stares on Monday as I bide time

to let down everyone who ever loved me.

Scientists have discovered how bright 

the universe is, but under the light panels

I google, “What if I cannot do this 

aymore?” “Strong up,” Master texts me,

but I do not know that yet, as I close my eyes

to how alike I am to the uprooted roses,

their blossoms the ashen color

of dehydration. When the sun shines, I let out

a hacking cough, my disposal as inevitable

as the lost doll I once treasured.

THE VALLEY OF ASHES

There was a Queen who kept the talcum powder dear to her heart.

There was a King who made glue from horse bones.

Years later, the Queen’s Sphere tilted just so.

It was glorious once, in the Valley.

Still, the Architect reclaimed the wetlands

with some solid waste to create parkland.

“The valley of ashes are bounded on

one side by a small, foul river. . . ”

The sweet mandarin is so sweet.

Did Ugolino gnaw on the flesh of his sons?

You are a windmill.

I am born of the river.

Down at the glass-bottle beach:

Ceramic tiles, bricks, newspapers, and glass

Lie side by side with deck markers,

Beachcombers pick up dolls and furniture,

Someone’s refuse—another’s royal mound.

The shadow of the waste of past generations.

“The wind has left, the sand is gone. . . ” Hsin said.

I behold the sphere in the outskirts of the city.

my Queen bedecked with graffitied rocks reaching

to console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes.

In the sea, a reflection of the red sunrise, memories where train tracks once were.

SHEPHERD OF TROY

Mama, when I am crying, always holds me:

big crybaby in her arms, and I break

down as the demasiado world breaks me

into pieces. You would think I could now sleep well

at night but I wake up and wonder if Master was right

when he said, “You should have kept mum.

You knew what was going to come after that.”

“I am afraid, Mama. Have I done the right thing?

Nobody else said nada.

That’s what they call us, troublemakers.” I asked

Friend if he thought I did the right thing.

Master said beware of men who promise

with their falsetto the meadow as the wild wind

blows. I wipe away my big fat tears

with Kleenex like Sisyphus, as droplets just keep rolling

down and I cry some more out of shame.

Mama holds me, “Oh, darling, you are

hurt. You are a good person, I know that.” But being good is use-

less. I bawl out that Judge Young said everyone deserved a safe space

and we are that safe space, and Mama holds me

and tells me I am like that first Black

Supreme Court Justice who asks the questions nobody

is asking. I say, “Mama, Oliver Wendell Holmes who said

‘Three generations of imbeciles are enough’ isn’t Black.”

Mama rolls her eyes and I laugh,

“Wasn’t,” she says. Justice Holmes also said justice

is like a crystal ball, which I peer into: I see

the stately Thurgood Marshall who asked the questions.

When I asked Master if I was going to die soon

and be free of pain, he said I should never have given up

pieces of myself for this futile cause, which could only

bring me back to where I was. Master holds my hands to stop me

from scratching. Memories of Mama holding me

keep me warm as I sleep with broken porcelain

as proof of my flight before butterfingered dawn

calls out in good humor, “Good morning, Shepherd.”

Shepherd girl, Master’s right-hand kid, who never

made a vain deal with the devil. I wonder

if I ever made trouble because I wanted to,

asking the questions that needed to be asked

even when I heard their footsteps approaching.