Thunderclap

           Growing up, I was taught how to swallow

           storms without letting the thunder trapped

           in my throat shatter the floodgate of my tongue.

           It all began the day my father became the sun

           that set at noon—I was in kindergarten. I was five.

           I was taught how to stomach grief with a grinning

           face. My stomach aches. I was never meant to be

           silent. But boys like me don’t talk too much.

           If they are ever allowed to speak at all. Boys like

           me don’t cry even if loss claws at their ribs. Even

           if the cloud is gathering in their quivering chests

           and their bodies are rivers of salt water.

           Boys like me must shut up and lock up.

           Boys like me must jump up and catch up

           before they ever learn how to crawl.

           Boys like me must grow up to man up,

           to be tough enough to smuggle

           tears like contraband

           across the brittle border of grief and silence.

           Until my chest could no longer hold it all in.

           And I remember I’m my father’s son: Èmi Omo

           Olúkòso Àyárá’ná. Say, I’m the Disaster that

           accompanies the laughter of a trickster.

           Say, I’m a Thunder-Throated Monster.

           Call me the Fiery Thing that arrives

           before the seething sky loses its patience.

           A descendant of Sàngó; a thunderclap.