Member Poem

for my grandmother

She flew to see us in Zimbabwe,
my First Memory: Beautiful
Manicured Hands—Jonelle
with those little pills in her purse,
malaria medication—
I’d say I heard them shake
but I’m not sure. Then she left,
Hair Blowing on the tarmac:
Last Memory. Jonelle—getting sicker
by the day, the doctors
holding her hand, my grandfather
holding back her blonde hair
as she vomits into the basin,
nobody knowing
these little pills were worse
than what they prevented.
We had flown into Memphis
the night before the funeral.
I stayed home the next day,
knowing nothing
besides lobster for lunch.
Lobster—what a thing!
I opened the fridge, peering
over their cold, slowed forms,
brown as blood turning
through tubes. Hours later,
the adult processional into
the kitchen—I was picked up
so many times, the kitchen light
so close to my head,
the scuttle of lobsters
beneath the talk of Jonelle.
Boiling water, the room hot
with relatives—I wanted to know,
I wanted to know what was going
to happen to the lobsters.
Dangled over the water, one dropped
with a plunk by my uncle.
The screaming. Adults talking
about Jonelle, the flowers.
The kitchen filled with
the screaming of lobsters.

(Originally appeared in One, Issue 9)