She Can't Read
She couldn't read,
much less read me
even look me up
like simple digits
listed in a telephone book.
She couldn't catch
the gist of my spine
standing straight,
my frame holding promise
pointing to that shimmering pond called sky
though I am sure she tried.
Saw herself reflected
as a swift dream,
a black swan gliding high,
migration was beneath her.
She gave flight
over to fight in the sixth grade.
In a perfect world
we'd all have wings.
But she couldn't read me
or spell it out
much less see me
with so much hate in her eyes
and she wasn't taking a chance on the flight.
Uncle Walter
Tribute for Walter Bailey
Uncle Walter was all brown suit serious
about the Lord.
A handkerchief-brow-wiping-holy-sweatin'
kind of man
Uncle Walter studied on kindness
therefore kindness studied on him.
Planting a sweet smile on his face,
blessing him with an ever ready hand
to pat our churchgoing backs.
He was all this, but mostly he was
a Praise the Lord with a Holy Ghost
Singing Stiff-legged Shuffle Dance.
And he danced
as he sang
and he sang while he danced
calling forth the whole of Bethlehem Baptist Church
to sing it children one more time
and he did
and we did
three, five, seven more times.
He obeyed the Lord and so did we
whipped up in his "Praise the Lord" frenzy.
He didn't need no hymnal
the words written like God's words 'cross his chest,
memorized from his old-timey bye and bye,
flying out from his mouth like holy rain.
He didn't need no songbook, he was a walking hymn
and every song filled each step he took
made every soul stand up
take a listen and dance.
I say they don't make men like Uncle Walter no more
blessing us with the chorus
I want somewhere, somewhere
somewhere to lay my head,
somewhere to lay my head,
somewhere to lay my head.
We know now with blessed assurance
heaven has smiled on him
blessed him with a golden pillow
and somewhere to lay his head
and we all shout,
Hallelujah one more time!
M.I.T. (mother in training)
We called her lil' momma or baby Jeanette.
Before she could talk
she'd walk defiantly and with a purpose.
Her chubby hands closed into fist.
Her mouth set with serious adult determination.
Some children come here like that.
Emerge fully grown
with a rock solid sense of self.
Some
come here with a mission.
This one
always got a hand on her hip
or the other one pointing like an arrow
to what needs to be done
or better yet doing it herself.
This whipstitch of a happening,
Amber, my youngest,
rock solid as her name.
I didn't make her this way,
she came like this on her own.
Knowing what is what
every which way and that,
and pitching in at just the right time.
She's got cabinets to clean.
She's got beds to make.
She's got TV channels to change.
We call her R. C. Q.
for Remote Control Queen.
She's got her finger on the pulse.
She's got a sister to keep
and she even tries to run me with,
Mom a tattoo is totally out of the question.
What will it look like on you when you are eighty?
I let loose with a look that says this is my body and my money.
She deflects my words
with rolling eyes and an all-knowing sigh.
She's got maternal instincts vibrating way too high.
What can I say?
It comes from my side.
She is just like me
even more than I ever was.
She's got a schedule posted on her wall,
wake up 6 a.m., 6:30 a.m. wake up rest of household.
Some children come knowing what must be done,
carving the way carrying on.