Next poem is a persona poem.
And I've-- it's rather presumptuous,
it's through a Black woman speaking who works as--
well, one who's always in the kitchen, I
guess, and never gets out--
a loss for words.
Anyway, it's told through her.
It takes place at a lake, in Iowa of all places--
Lake Okoboji.
It's in the form of a letter: A Letter
From Sobrina To Her Daughter.
"Water leaks from a faucet, another day
gray as an iron pot.
Today I'll sharpen the knives, a locust will buzz in my ear.
If anyone should ask, I don't feel alone.
Each summer, I taste the cool waters of the well out back.
But just remember, I've never sneaked a drink
from anyone's cupboard.
But I know thirst--
always at the back of my mouth, a seed in the wet ground.
My children, you've gone on.
Each hums a different tune.
You're like the old summer's metal,
wood, rust, but mine, all mine.
My ankles swell.
I wash the dishes sitting down.
And when I change the sheets, I'm
scared of dying in a room with no windows,
of suddenly being taken up like an angel.
At night, my empty jars gather dust.
I see the moon filling the ditches where
poor niggers slept, your father coming home drunk, singing
about his kids and crops.
I'm getting along.
My legs move to their own music, flowing down streams.
Banks line with minstrels who play until the sun comes up.
I'm a riverboat packed with people
who wave white handkerchiefs to no one, no one at all.
I'm traveling at my own pace here
where pine trees stay the same height all summer long."