Halcyon Kitchen

Granma cautioned in a kitchen off Century and Hoover:

Never throw your hair away. Burn it. Till yellow

cornbread bakes and greens release pot liquor,

her garnet-polished fingers unraveled each cornrow.

Never throw your hair away, burn it till yellow

flames flick up and turn orange, blue. Overhead,

her garnet-polished fingers unraveled each cornrow,

wrestling. I reminisce, standing over her deathbed.

Rain picks up and turns ocher, blue. Unsaid

were simple things. Oxtail stew and yam

recipes I recollect, standing over her deathbed.

She smoked Mores leaning in the kitchen doorjamb,

when simple things — oxtail stew and yam

recipes — were not measured nor written. Cooking while

she smoked Mores leaning in the kitchen doorjamb,

her left hand in the profound curve of her hip. She’d say, Chile,

ma recipes are not measured nor written. Cooking while

I sat alongside the stove waiting for the hot comb, meantime

her left hand in the profound curve of her hip, she’d say, Chile,

I may be dead and gone, but you mark my words. Sometimes

I sat alongside the stove waiting for the hot comb, meantime

I loved watching her smoking, cooking, talking with More fingers,

I may be dead and gone, but you’ll mark my words. This time,

she is quiet. I hold maroon-polished hands as her soul lifts, waits, lingers.

I loved watching her smoking, cooking, talking with More fingers.

Halcyon rain picks up, soaks me blue. Nothing unsaid.

She is quiet. I hold maroon-polished hands as her soul lifts, waits, lingers,

restful. I’m remembering — standing over her deathbed.