Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 Poetry |

Me and Marilyn in Beulah’s Mind

These her own sister's children . . . one with her head in books, the other in the clouds. They call her Ahnt, like little white girls, but they eat like colored when a plate of biscuits go 'round. "Ahnt Beulah," they chorus in angel voices, "May we please have some more?" Lord have mercy, that put Beulah in mind of her dead husband Hubert,black as spades he was, and mean when the hunger came on him. He smashed up her best china—Miz Bernstein give it to her after three cups broke at Michael's briss—he smashed them plates back to sandcussing about the white feast he could look at but not eat. Hubert had such a pain in his gutfrom the meal he never gotthat even Beulah's hot gravy on grits couldn't ease him. Now these stainless nieces smiling up at her,wearing Miz Bernstein's hand-me-down dresses, asking for more of that same gravy,and all she able to do is sit theretears welling up like little false pearls, threatening the fine white linen. Sweet Jesus! it's not e

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