Not enough
was the lunch I brought
but I didn't trade, stuck
to my small fare. While
others passed peanut
butter & pickles, I ate
my soggy sandwiches,
the one with mustard
first. No dessert.
The field held on
to its secrets, the words
we kids got here to find,
names of trees & birds,
Latin, scientific. We gathered
samples, stirred under rocks
to study the world pale & blind
as the black albino
able to enter Cotillion, to pass
the brown paper bag
test at the door but still get
talked about. To this day
my father won't wear
baggy pants or carry his
lunch in bags--both remind
too much of teenage
times, of days Negroes
had to lug lunch to town,
chicken grease or hocks
seeping the paper, making
the bag a newborn's caul,
the veil that lets you see
ahead. After all, who knew
when you'd end up downtown,
walking past miles of WHITES
ONLY signs or the thin disguise
of Gentleman's Clubs. No one
had to wink or hint what
Members Only meant. Just head
out, hungry, past the boulevard
towards the dock or boardwalk
or fields that chain
& label nothing except
food. Alone, devour cracklin
& drumstick till no meat
or marrow is left, just
bones & grease & fossil
enough to feed
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