Requiem for The Weedman

Requiem for The Weedman

Dasha Kelly Hamilton

Tony never talks to me about terps

Katie didn’t mention percentages or strains

Mike doesn’t brandish a logo, but his product

and customer service -- always fire

Julian can’t name the co-op of growers, but

the strand is described with war tools

Meeting Moose is most natural in parking lots

Ant delivers to the house

Max is still making moves after bar time

Serena can’t come through til after work

Sam’s stash is personally vetted

Percy doesn’t partake at all

Ericka responds to texts, never calls

Ed rewards loyalty with free samples and extra shake

Jake is not opposed to credit

Denver needs her money every time

Cast our votes

Decriminalize our connects

Yelp our transactions

Ease them to the margins of utility, of enterprise

beside the bank tellers, book sellers,

taxi cab drivers and market cashiers

Alisha doesn’t have a store front, hoodies or permit from the state

Cricket only jokes about launching an app or website

Will upgraded from baggies to plastic pouches, the kind

from the hardware store for bolts and screws

Neither Jasmine nor John open their doors on travel weekends

for visitors to gawk, giggle and shop in

broad daylight

Comments

Receipts

"I mean, who doesn't want their six-year-old daughter to hang out with princesses, and shit...?" A few of us nodded solemnly. Some threw up their hands, clicked their teeth in disgust. Many were quiet with sloped shoulders. Seated at long tables arranged into an open rectangle, we all pointed our bodies and attention towards him in agreement. I doubt the men would use the language "holding space for him," but that's what we did. We meet twice weekly to loosen their knots of habits, deeds, lessons and norms, particularly as partners and parents. Over the course of six months, we unpack trauma, toxic masculinity, self-actualization, expectations and accountability vs. responsibility. They weigh the stakes of their relationships, wellness, and even their freedom. The men also have space --often, for the first time-- to admit their hurts, their misguided intentions, their inherited perspectives and debunk curious myths. This week, our check-in, a warm-up ...

Nothing promised

When I'm not scribbling lines of poetry on Q'doba receipts or dialogue quips on my daughter's homework (hey ... Yale will not be asking for copies of her worksheet on words that start with "th"), I'm pretending to be a marketing consultant. Actually, I'm pretty good at what I do (I'm allowed to say that, right?) I only say "pretending" because I'm one of those people who always thinks they could and should be better, especially since I started working independently 6 yrs ago. I used to recoil from the [whisper] overachiever label ... but I used to think I'd be a Size 10 again, too. Right. Get over it. Anyhoo, I was hired to plan a 99th birthday gala for the first African-American woman to become a licensed mortician in the State of Wisconsin (I know). But, this sista was smooth, you hear me?! She's still vibrant and eloquent and graceful and warm and funny, simply amazing. I put together a photo montage for the reception and din...

Tiger Pause

At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys. At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking. My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair....

...and then...

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