Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1993 |

Easy Living

for Dorothy West From the shiny iron stove, where your mother cooked, you move to your small writing table past the foot-high, yellow dictionary. You remember the days your mother took you and your rainbow cousins out to shock the white folks. Your mother had a cream color, her pink cheeks against your gingersnap brown you call an apolitical colored. Your mother forbade you to ever set foot in the South. She told you about her mother, who was a slave. This slave grandmother of yours had eleven children by her master. One day, a little girl who was your aunt stepped on the tail of her white father's dog. Your grandfather went into a rage and he killed your grandmother's daughter. The South still frightens you. Your Oak Bluffs cottage sits like a dollhouse on Myrtle Avenue. You see an image arise. It is your father as he sells the restaurant in Richmond that he opened with his mother. He moved north to Springfield, Massachusetts, to the produce stand that made him Boston's

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By Michael S. Weaver

for Dorothy West From the shiny iron stove, where your mother cooked, you move to your small writing table past the foot-high, yellow dictionary. You remember the days your mother […]

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