Domestic work
Her notes were
indigo. On floor
in two-room
shack, grandma hovers washtub,
wrings wrinkles
into cotton-picked woven blouse,
sings to melody
of detergent bubbles,
sloshes seven
days’ worth of washing
for the clink of
change so her three children can go
to school.
“Education is freedom,” they’re taught
even though it’s
post emancipation and freedom
ain’t free. She
rocks and washes. Money making a slow rubato.
Introduction to Amistad in mixed company
The splash of
the woman
with new-born
baby
greeting sea
liberty
rings in my
ears.
The silence
after
hung in the
room,
a mangled body.
I watch
guilt writ
across
classmates’
mugs; an ID
number to trace
lineage -
They too would
have been there.
They would have
been there
to bargain souls
for guns,
wash African
mouths
of native
tongues,
erase heritage
with whip
strokes.
Teary-eyed, I
rub shoulders
with classmate,
her face
wrenched in
pain.
Flashes of
terror paralyze.
Bound by fury
and rage
we held our
breaths together.
We knew
we would have
been bound together
in the belly of
that ship.
Attempts
at integration
I tremble, meet
the stranger’s eyes
beset behind
glasses. She glares.
You don’t
belong here.
I managed meager
smile,
attempt to share
alcove in library.
I’ve never run
anyone away
with an
entrance.
Not in my age.
Her age
tells me more
than I can imagine
behind flustered
cheeks;
eyes burn me. I
imagine words
jailed in her
pursed lips when she snaps
around, pissed
from my settling
down.
She evacuates
herself
from the space,
from me.
She gathers her
things.
Mumbles
something.
Perhaps I heard
Nigger,
spat from those
thin lips.
I make no
apologies
for my sun-beat,
melanin-
filled skin.
