You do not like the look of awe and terror on their faces when you tell them this:
You are young, going up north to where your mom’s family is from
And you wish to dance among the fallen autumn leaves
Outside of your aunt’s house, those tall unwavering trees
Those bare branches and strong trunks
A pile of leaves on the sidewalk that someone kicked up just for you
Some of them got sap on their leaves, others dusty from the summer breeze
You make friends with a could-be house cat
Who lives under your grandmother’s porch
You go out there for a week with a bowl
Of milk in hand even though cats have a hard time
Digesting dairy and your skin has a hard time
Touching cat’s fur
The two of you fall in love at a distance
Now, an expected sort of intimacy
When you walk up with the white, china bowl
You are delighted to find out
That the cat is a mommy with a litter
Of five little, stinking runts
No one else is happy at the news
They’se for outside, someone says
You can’t remember who
Your mom’s allergic, says dad
They can’t come in the house
No, sorry
Fine, you stomp around
You sit in that old musty house which you learned
Had burned down when your mom was a kid
No one was hurt, ‘cept the ghosts, yes and a lot was destroyed
But someone made a new room for all the
Burned up photographs and all the new babies
That mom’s sisters and brothers and their sons and daughters were having
And there were kids that looked like you
On the walls surrounded by rows of other generation dolls
Sitting up straight and tall
You remember that smell of grandma’s house
The spookiness of the dark side of the living room
The shades always half drawn, shadows resting on the sofa
You remember when black was a word only used by aunt carol
When she was talking with your dad about politics
Or
In your second grade classroom when you learned about the civil war
Then it was used when you were with dad’s family
Your cousins asked how you were related because of that word
And by your mom years later
When you no longer went to the north country
She warned you ahead of time how many black people would be at the barbecue
She warned you because where you grew up, you were one of few
And maybe you had learned a nasty kind of fear
She wasn’t sure so she took her precautions
That is the story of how black became
Something else
Not the color of your family but,
A word that made you squirm in your seat
Was used to compliment and insult in the same breath
Black: only a source of confusion, never solace
And now, you regurgitate that word ever so clearly
With a performed authority that fits strangely
Between your teeth
You watch as others try not to wince as you spray
Black over your words
You watch as they sit paralyzed as you once were
Oddly, however
You have made a home between the awe and terror when you speak
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