three tercets to remember
before rosa there was claudette, young, gifted, and black refusing to move from the front of the bus to the back not even sojourner and harriet could prevent her attack.
before jackie there was satchel aka leroy robert paige birmingham’s black baron blurring color lines, at age 59 still throwing strikes from the major’s center stage.
before nikki there was phillis, named after the slave ship that carried her to a nation where she escaped the whip lashings written across backs because she learned to script.
sugar plum
the second we locked eyes, i searched for your name,
your tender skin sticky, the color of candied rhubarb.
stuck next door listening for the sound of tender cries,
waiting for the nurse to bring a seven pound delivery.
the patient nurse waited more than seven minutes after the delivery
so i could snuggle with you, my sweet little dumpling one last time.
the moment your sweet little dumpling cheek stroked mine
visions of your loving and caring first mother danced in my head.
wet cheeks nestled in an empty bed, visions of my first loving moments
as your mother, ten tiny fingers, tightly closed, yet still caressing my heart.
ten tiny fingers now play open close them whenever she says hi, bye,
or calls you the apple of her eye, sugar lump, or sweet potato pie.
sugar lump, sweet potato pie, dumpling, the sweetest under the sun,
the second we locked eyes, i knew your name had to be sugar plum.
an american girl, an abecedarian
spiraling
back in the day, up and down city street treelines,
girls like me stutter step over chalky hopscotch lines
brown skinned, red palmed, neck snapping, gum popping,
one jumper and two turners swinging, all singing lines
about a woman named miss mary mack dressed in black
with silver buttons all down her back, rhyming lines
easier to remember than keeping your arms to the side
while rocking back and forth between threaded lines
and spidery shadows where the rope doesn’t catch your feet
or anxious shoelaces threatening to tangle parallel lines
better time it right, too early, too late, one misstep could
ruin the syncopated sound of double dutch lines
Michele Evans, a fifth-generation Washingtonian (D.C.) and high school English teacher, is the author of purl. Poems in this debut collection from Finishing Line Press have found homes in places like ASP Bulletin, Maryland Literary Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, Yellow Arrow Journal and elsewhere. Despite always wearing the color black, she loves blueberries, blue hydrangeas, blues musicians, and Blue Mountain coffee. You can connect with her at @awordsmithie on Instagram.