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Portrait of My Father Mocking Sammy Davis Jr.
He widens an eye and gets down on one knee.
He accepts a sliver of silver from my mother and kisses
her behind. He calls her Frank Sinatra. He calls our house
the Rat Pack. He steps away from his piano into the kitchen with a carrot
and now he is Nat King Cole. He is singing “Mona Lisa” on a tap
while he holds my mother’s hand. She is the head
of Capitol Records. He could do this every day
for 15 minutes. He forever sings to the stalk over jungle plants
buzzing along the windowsill. They go hand over hand
in a photo album. His pompadour is tight. He leans out the window crooning.
He hollers at all the little snakes, get back. Now he is bundling up in sweaters.
Now we all eat chocolate pudding. He hates the way we curse.
My father is silvering up his tap shoes. He overdoses on
a living room couch. Now, he has a Duke Maestro on a poster.
He’s super funny with a self-demure. In his nod he is Richard Pryor,
bluing in an afro flame. He jokes about his body
on fire. Now, if only he could remember his mother. He crumbles into
Sunday morning on stage. Suddenly scatting over oatmeal, now he is
Al Jarreau. We, she, and he take five. We are strumming into stutter
on guitar. But now he is turning over the dark into Miles. He turns his back
to my mother’s fading hue. He is blowing holes into living
room walls. His popped lapels are flattening. Flattering
his jacket is leather and Shaft. He sports the Private Eye Duke
slumped over. He takes up a shotgun to the neighborhood
in blue. Here he is, the mirage of a sober pimp.
He sends my mother off to the mailbox. One last honey
go get my money. The snow is full of snow and maroon.
He is Bryant Gumbel up at sunrise. Keeping his news
tuned to the network. He is high and he can’t stop
smiling. None of his teeth go missing. He is painting his mouth
blue and dressing in dresses. My father flips Flip Wilson. No
one will see his second act. The weather is full of beautiful
muppets. My father is Ben Vereen.
He tips his bowler, and he lifts the sky.
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francine j. harris is the author of three collections, including Here is the Sweet Hand, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. Originally from Detroit, she has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the MacDowell Colony, and the Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library. She is Professor of English at the University of Houston and serves as Consulting Faculty Editor at Gulf Coast.
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Valentina Bautista, The Rat Pack