!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>Que Sera Sera by A. Van Jordan/title> /div> h1 class=”pageTitle”>Que Sera Sera/h1> div class=”entry-content clearfix”> h2 itemprop=”author” class=”author”>by A. Van Jordan/h2> div itemprop=”genre” id=”content”> div class=”taxonomy-images”>a href=”/a-van-jordan/poems.html” class=”taxonomy-image-links”>img itemprop=”image” src=”https://www.best-poems.net/files/imagecache/poet/category_pictures/A.%20Van%20Jordan.jpg” alt=”A. Van Jordan” title=”A. Van Jordan” width=”180″ height=”200″ class=”taxonomy-image-term-11067 taxonomy-image-vid-22″/>/a>/div>p>In my car, driving through Black Mountain,br /> North Carolina, I listen to whatbr /> sounds like Doris Day shootingbr /> heroin inside Sly Stone’s throat./p> p>One would think that she fightsbr /> to get out, but she wants to staybr /> free in this skin. Fresh,br /> The Family Stone’s album,/p> p>came out in ’73, but I didn’t make sensebr /> of it till ’76, sixth grade for me,br /> the Bicentennial, I got my first kiss that year,br /> I beat up the class bully; I was the man./p> p>But for now, in my head, it’s only ’73br /> and I’m a little boy again, listeningbr /> to Sly and his Family covering Doris’s hit,br /> driving down I-40;/p> p>a cop pulls me over to ask whybr /> I’m here, in his town, with my Yankee tags.br /> I let him ask a series of questionsbr /> about what kind of work I do,/p> p>what brings me to town—you knowbr /> the kind of questions that tell youbr /> this has nothing to do with driving a car.br /> My hands want to ball into fists./p> p>But, instead, I tell myself to write a letterbr /> to the Chief of Police, to give him somethingbr /> to laugh at over his morning paper,br /> as I try to recall the light in Doris Day’s version/p> p>of “Que Sera Sera”—without the wailbr /> troubling the notes in the duetbr /> of Sly and Cynthia’s voices.br /> Hemingway meant to definebr /> courage by the nonchalance you exudebr /> while taking cover within your flesh,br /> even at the risk of losingbr /> what some would call a melody;br /> I call it the sound of home.br /> Like when a song gets so far outbr /> on a solo you almost don’t recognize it,br /> but then you get back to the hook, you suddenly/p> p>recognize the tune and before you know it,br /> you’re putting your hands together; you’re on your feet—br /> because you recognize a sound, like a light,br /> leading you back home to a color:/p> p>rust. You must rememberbr /> rust—not too red, not too orange—not fire or overnightbr /> change, but a simmering-summerbr /> change in which children play till they tire/p> p>and grown folks sit till they grow edgybr /> or neighborhood dogs bite those not from your neigborhoodbr /> and someone with some sense says Down, Boy,br /> or you hope someone has some sense/p> p>who’s outside or who owns the dog and then the skybr /> turns rust and the streetlights buzz onbr /> and someone’s mother, must be yours, saysbr /> You see those streetlights on don’t you,/p> p>and then everybody else’s mother comes out and saysbr /> the same thing and the sky is rust so you knowbr /> you got about ten minutes before she comes back outbr /> and embarrasses you in front of your friends;/p> p>ten minutes to get home before you eat and watchbr /> the Flip Wilson Show or Sanford and Son and it’s time for bed.br /> And it’s rust you need to rememberbr /> when the cop asks, What kind of work you do?/p> p>It’s rust you need to remember: the smellbr /> of summer rain on the sidewalkbr /> and the patina on wrought-iron railings on your front porchbr /> with rust patches on them, and the smell/p> p>of fresh mowed grass and gasoline and sweatbr /> of your childhood as he takes a step backbr /> when you tell him you’re a poet teachingbr /> English down the road at the college,/p> p>when he takes a step back—br /> to assure you, know, that this has nothing to do with race,br /> but the rust of a community he believesbr /> he keeps safe, and he says Have a Good One,/p> p>meaning day as he swaggers back to his car,br /> and the color of the day and the face behind sunglassesbr /> and the hands on his hips you’ll always rememberbr /> come back gunmetal gray/p> p>for the rest of this rusty afternoon.br /> So you roll up the windowbr /> and turn the music back on,br /> and try to remember the rust caught in Sly’s throat—/p> p>when the song came out in ’73,br /> although I didn’t get it till ’76,br /> sixth grade for me, the Bicentennial;br /> I got my first kiss that year./p> p>I beat up the class bully.br /> I was the man./p> br> /body> /html>
