It isn’t safe to be like us, like it was in the 1920’s. This is the 1950’s, and black dykes may as well not exist, but here we are.
I shout out the cares of the world, and I cook for you. Chicken, greens, cornbread, black-eyed peas, macaroni. We are so lucky to have these things.
We both work hard. You, on the railroad tracks that they’re building in Mississippi, and me in old Miss Johnson’s house.
With love and tenderness, I make your favorite, blackberry pie.
Flour on my hands and apron, I knead the dough then add some powdered sugar. You always ask, “How do you keep the blackberries from turning to liquid in the oven?” I just smile at you, white teeth and black skin.
It is good to be like this. In love with someone I love.
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