mannish water
Matthew E. Henry
when one of our new white neighbors asked
what he was eating and my mother—smiling
in Black, Gold, and Green—replied curried goat,
I saw visions of petting zoos and satanism
stroke the side of his face, the hand which held
his fork, before he turned and discreetly reached
for a napkin, searched for what looked anonymously
safe on the table. ackee and saltfish. stew peas.
callalloo. breadfruit. I saw the banquet spread,
the love-offering my family raised to be welcomed
into a New England suburbia whose gardens
are for show—not salads or tea. I heard
their names with paler ears. bully beef
and cabbage. tripe. chicken-foot soup. oxtail.