Blue and Red Macaws by Shunko (Harumitsu). Color woodblock print. Courtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago.
To be a traitor is to trade—
Take, for example, the blue macaw
of my childhood, traded
for two rocks of crack
and a dime of blow. My block raided
each week by waves of drive-bys,
waves of cops, while I sprayed Raid
on roaches, white powder on fire
ant mounds, bedbugs, though nothing aided.
Into Houston’s Fifth Ward
the hyacinth macaw was added,
intensely blue as is allowed
only to royalty. I felt like a traitor
just to behold it, tied to the T
of a laundry post, misty canopy traded
for a man’s pit-stained shirts strung
on a line. My brothers and I would have raided
the house if we could, taught the bird
more than cuss words. The owner stated,
my pit-bull’s gonna eat your face
if I catch you here again. The bird ate it,
the medley of banana and guava
from our own front yard. The image hasn’t faded:
a royal blue macaw—lazuli, cobalt,
sapphire, none of these would I have traded
for the view through my chain-link fence,
clutching the rusted wire diamonds—added
to my mind like a cigarette goes through
a t-shirt, like the sun, visible though bated,
reaches the forest floor. Siren lights
whirled their blue as the police raided
his shot-gun house. We relieved our knees
to lift our palms, surrender-style, fated.
We could rub the crosswire patters off,
but the smell of iron stuck to us
and hasn’t faded.