Raisin
In his youth he swam a million miles, far
from concrete shores, across chlorine waters;
with each lunge forward, he flew a little farther.
He knew what it was—passion—an itch,
gnawing at his insides, provoking him. Swim,
between the lines, buoyant, margins to his path.
His father could have killed him with that look—
maybe wanted to?—ashamed of how dumb he was.
How will chasing that rectangular sea improve his life?
He knew not how to reconcile dreams, to fuse
together his (dream deferred) with that of his father’s.
How could he choose, between honor and passion?
Now he is an old prune—or A Raisin in the Sun,
proud of the furrows on his skin, cavernous
like valleys folded over, remembering.