Cell Division

by Yvonne

A pale blindness spread
when the Harlem cousins uprooted came.
Their black-crepe mother sank upon my bed
and wept for weeks insane.
Then dried her eyes and soul.

A faint deafness unrolled.
Mother cuddled the telephone.
Baby sister banged her brain
for sleep that nightly crawled
through our shared bedroom lock.

My lullaby was smart radio talk.
Daddy had no ear, save jazz solitaire.
A muteness stoked the fire.
Mother and the widow sparred. A dance
of prickly and cute suspense.

On cue earth heaved and gushed.
Our dark town screamed, “Ambushed!”
Heaven foreclosed. At high noon’s end,
bullet in the back, court pennies in hand.
A slow vanishing began:

Black velvet Jesus, a stray hat pin,
outdoor privy and gossip tea cups.
Coney Island seashells on tabletops.
Somebody’s lies slept in somebody’s heart.
Breathe a word. Smell a dead retort.                                                    

Yvonne is the First poetry editor at feminist Aphra and Ms. Yvonne has received many awards for her work, including two NEAs (poetry/1974/1984), BRIO (1991), Leeway (fiction/2003), Pushcart Prize (v.6), etc. Recent print publications include Black in the Middle (Belt), Pennsylvania English (2020), CV 2-Canadian Poetry (43.2), Geez: Bone&Breath (Fall 2020), Home: An Anthology (Flexible), Horror USA: California (Soteira), Is It Hot In Here…? (Social Justice), Quiet Diamonds 2019/2018 (Orchard Street), 161 One-Minute Monologues (Smith&Kraus), Bosque #8, Event (49.1), Yellow Arrow (5.2), Foreign Literary Journal #1. Online listings: www.iwilla.com.