After February 25, 1971

Grandma was murdered at 42 when gun violence 
was uncommon. Mom had to identify the body. 
The coroner pulled the sheet down 
without warning. The corpse stared 

back at her. Mouth wide open. 
How could mom even take care of us? 
How could she gently crack an egg 
over a cast iron skillet, peel and dice potatoes, 

slice an onion from root to stem, decorate 
our table with sunflowers and acorns, soak 
peaches and plums in vinegar and water, polish 
each piece of fruit like it was not grown for consumption? 

How could she crochet blankets with daisies, rainbows, 
and stars, save heirlooms in a chest of embroidered linens, 
part our hair like we had porcelain scalps, lather each coil 
with Royal Crown, twist each strand into velvet rope? 

How could she adorn us yearly for candlelight vigils, 
slip peppermints in the pockets of cashmere coats, 
caress our cheeks with gloved hands, give us 
permission to mourn? 

She didn’t. 

She walked hard. Talked loud. 
Yanked up boys who had bullied us. 
Left their feet dangling in midair. 
Collars in her fists. Fists at their throats. 

Threw our father down a flight of stairs. 
Chased a blue mink out of Cheslsea’s Lounge. 
Taught us to cuss like barroom hussies. 
Told us coochie has no face. 

Warned us not to drink with white people. 
Warned us not to hang from trees. 
Marched on Washington. Marched on roaches. 
Marched on Rutgers. Marched up library marble 

on Sundays. Read The Bluest Eye, Seize the Time, 
and Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day. Reared us 
stoned-faced with fist clenched toward the clouds. 
Prayed to Afro-Jesus. Memorized the 23rd Psalm. 

Swooned over Billie Dee Williams. 
Watched Mahogany and Lady Sings the Blues. 
Skipped Buick payments to pay for school 
6 miles away in a Jewish town. 

Blasted Run DMC’s Proud to Be Black 
and James Brown’s Say It Out Loud. 
Secured our identities, but lost her own. 
Stopped tucking us in at night. 

Wrote postdated checks for birthdays. 
Wrapped free knickknacks for Christmas. 
Borrowed whatever we had. 
Asked us to pray she’d hit 5 of a kind for a 1,000. 

Gambled at Bally’s right before the sun 
rose over the bay. Woke up yelling. Poured 
Fruity Pebbles in plastic bowls. Slapped 
them on trays just in time for Scooby-Doo. 

Cut middle chunks out of thick hair. 
Swished boar bristle in warm water. 
Used Dippity-do to slick down our edges. 
Formed a bun. Convinced us we were beautiful.