Poetry Magazine, Cherryl Floyd-Miller, April 2002

Poetry Magazine

Cherryl Floyd-Miller

USA

a cappella

i.
on footstools, i was eye-level
with stock pot steams

hot clapping lard in cast iron skillets

cackles of just-made tea over ice

kerplunk-ing collard pan settling in the sink

a wild kazoo of pipes
milking water through a faucet

for swish and sud

ii.
daddy on a bar stool
before the mute flash of
Steelers vs. Skins
plucked chords
for his next-Sunday song

baby brother beside him
two pillows for a drum
beat backup at daddy's tapped feet

iii.
even the aromas had a solo in this house:
curled through climbing ivy vine
serenading noses of neighbors
in language that antecedes words

iv.
i wanted lyric and refrain
hush, holler, syntax & trope
to speak conjugation into those sundays

be a player
clack, clatter a kitchen
twang & strum guitar
give up heartbeat like drum

beneath the holiness of stars
beyond knees of prayer
before cyclops night sky
between frenzied diaries

headlocked with Muse
in a balderdash of truth –
word, poem, song

the only instrument i ever played
was my voice

kitchen fires

pomade and pork fat at stove side
which to do first food or hair?
both require heat food it is
just about got all the grit offa the collards
anyhow she scuttles from stove
to cupboard to sink

stove to cupboard to sink

discovers peaceandquiet
silence a riptide of the kitchenette
racket deliverance from day wars:
job one: job two: hair braiding: mending
holes: pie making: church going:
lovemaking
during a deficit of sleep: children: the man

lays a mean straight’nin’ on hair
saturates strands with coconut oil
she’ll sweat back at least this stove is
gas not buck lessens the sweltering
puckers in wallpaper

all labor and pain in perspective
the house layered in smells:
she’s got a secret

hands hers a memoir of him
remembers he holds them with deliberate reign
pulls the bus over everyday to help her off at her
stop
on the corner of 52nd & main a man has an itch for
her
there she is a consummate woman

what do these hands say about her?
silver band on the left wrinkled knuckles
short
bare nails color of burnt sienna leaves
forked with weary veins and yearning
haven’t seen rest in a month of Sundays

at a stove these hands can burn
work, woman, work

some days, these hands have stopped traffic

spilled milk, grated yam

lactates anger as he sleeps waking animosity
crusted around his morning hello i dodge
each curdle of spit spewed over our
bedroom threshold

won’t call him a milksop today pinch
five uniform blues abreast onto clothesline
suspended aromas on polite breezes
bring a neighbor’s morning slab
of bacon, butter, bread

afternoon i perch then ease into the ramshackle
porch rocker dry rotting cushion gives
beneath the spherical heft of my rump
plop my feet beneath suds
in the steel gray pea shelling tub
try to remember his word that incensed me
and raised the bicker

children shooed into a yard of buttercups
and sandspurs their marble dodge ball rolls
near the cemented-in water pump and well

was a time he’d sneak my kisses through
tea kettle vapor pour fresher, steaming water
over my feet

a fog of dust, postman, mail i
pour from a pitcher and down a swig
of lemonade sun-dried feet in
slide-ons pleated knuckles tug and tuck
my scarf tied at center brow fumble
big pockets of a cotton sunflower duster
for nothing in particular i drag my
feet across loose oak planks hook
the wax paper-thatched screen door
behind me

clang of twilight in my kitchen windowsill
pansies oscillate just above tendrils
of green tomatoes countertop from
potato bin i bathe then skin the yam
smile my sequestered joy he rubs

my feet cradling my toes on
the plump of one palm kneading his
tenderness with the other between my
ankle and instep

don’t know why that man can work my one good nerve

what was the morning fuss all about?

under spigot, the yam yields a curry
flesh i grate it into bright heap sugar
eggs cornmeal and milk blend in for
batter pulp in an aluminum bowl
skillet gas hot oil crackles first
patty ladled rounds, browns
flipped just after the edges singe

hard day’s work my man is home
i should be mad/my shoulders square

from behind, a kiss falls to my cheek
curve of his grin in the periphery

i suck my teeth/i roll my eyes
disguise the upturned corners
of my mouth in a wrathful pucker

his offering: a basset hound stare
for my pardon i spoon more batter
into the grease cooking a priority

this moment gives the peace of
thumbsucking my swivel at the
waist in his clasp i pop between
his hungry smacks my hushed
forgiveness a steaming corner
of yam cake