Pickingmy grandfather
did it
a sack of hemp
tied to his shoulders
filled with clouds
of a fruit inedible
his daddy did it we all did it
we didn’t know no betta
he says it was a job
before, it was a life
the only one a Black body
could make a dime on
he trails off
sips the whiskey
I’ve brought him
you know
being in all dat cotton
I ’member the singing
most of all
a great moan
then ’nother
then ’nother
then ’nother
comin’ in waves
startlin’
sorrowful
like the voice
of God
OriginsOnce in Atlantic City, after she couldn’t take it any longer, she picked up a bottle and sprayed mustard all over his shirt like silly string. He laughed a high, unsettling laugh in response. Shoved popcorn in his mouth and, walking earshot behind her, said she really must be a no name nigga from Memphis if she think she gon’ get anywhere with three babies no degree and a black face. People on the boardwalk didn’t know what to make of it. Some laughed. The women didn’t. They looked at her. Then at the stroller.
He gave her a black eye Easter night. She said he was a cheat jus like his Black ass daddy and that’s when the fist came—unexpected, quick, soundless. She rebounded against the peach-colored wall. Went after him with a butter knife of all things, circling him round and round the dining room table that was littered with scraps of hours-old pork. The police officer was nicer than most. Let me sit on his lap and play with his flashlight while he took his notes in our kitchen.
My almost-ex-husband is always late. After another fifteen minutes, he walks whistling a familiar tune, in carrying his elegance like a satchel and looking as he always did in that caramel wool coat, spitting image of Jack Kennedy. When he sits, still humming Sinatra, I hiss out an angry whisper: you know my check engine light has been on for months, I’m at my wit’s end, I’m using this refund for bills. The tax preparer across from us kindheartedly pretends not to hear him call me a Black bitch. Years ago we had a pregnancy scare. He fell asleep with his head on my belly talking about the Cubs and humming Sinatra songs. Angels cheer ’cause we’re together he crooned. Over and over.
Sitting on our back porch in Memphis, I pass my sister the bottle of rye I’ve hidden in my purse. Remember when you damn near killed Tony? she asks. She’s talking about the time I walked into a hotel room in DC and saw my sister, all five feet ten of her, lying in some foreign origami pose on the floor while her boyfriend stood over her swaying drunkenly, leisurely like paper in the wind. The police officer said I went after the boy’s neck like I was wringing out a damp rag, but I couldn’t tell you what happened. All I remember was Kristen on the floor and wanting to tear out that boy’s trachea with my own teeth. We laugh about it now. I ask her why on earth she thought it a good idea to date a Yankee. Uppity niggas. The lot of ’em. Her laughter dances along to the song of crickets in the night. Still cracking up she says I looked like a bear bout to claw his eyes out. We sip whiskey. No, I say. I looked like mom.
Hot Combs Catfish Crumbs and Bad Menlent she’d send us out
come back with a basketful she’d call
my sister and i caught black tadpoles
with dark hands thrust into warm bogs
seeking, unafraid
my mother bent over cast iron skillet
read entrails in the hot oil
men will fail you more than the Lordshe swung a rosary over the stove
a pendulum pointing south
my sister collected hair thick as a nest
from all the old combs in the house
buried it deep in red clay
daddycomeback she chanted
God can stay asleep
these women in my life are magic enuff
Copyright © 2024 by Tara M. Stringfellow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
