Never mind the way the earth
turned flat at the edge of where we lived;*
this ritual remains.A midnight kiss, an overstocked pantry,
a jovial welcome at the front door for Mr. Jones,
his arms laden with corn bread. This far norththe quaking aspens shimmy their leaves
to the ground by October. But winds these days
stagger in low, west to east, anxious, drunk and stubborn,snatching stray hard headed discs from ice-cycled branches,
to send sailing through the open window for a last dance between
drizzled mustard dust, thick red peppers, green chilies and that extrapinch of garlic. I count 365 pitch pitted pennies for each paper plate;
add a heap of collards to be sure. Pass your mother's ancient copper
shaker set when you ask: How come you never spice up these peas?
Samiya Bashir is author of Where the Apple Falls, a volume of poems, and editor of Best Black Women's Erotica 2 and (with Tony Medina & Qurasysh Ali Lansana) Role Call: A Generational Anthology of Social & Political Black Literature & Art.
Footnote
* The opening lines are from a poem called, "The Shaw Brothers," by Afaa Michael Weaver