I didn’t ever know the home that burned down but what I loved about the home on the Hudson was the Nobel Prize citation in the downstairs bathroom. I am fortunate to call Toni Morrison friend. Mostly neither of us had much to say. There was always a comfortable silence when I visited her. My mother transitioned 24 June then my sister 5 August of the same year. I tried to do what any good daughter and sister would do and I think I got it done. But it was sad. One afternoon I was sitting at my desk just sort of being dismayed when I decided to call Toni. I probably talked more than ever and she was kind enough to listen. She finally said Nikki, Write. That’s all you can do. Write.

  I wish I had a restaurant then I could also cook up a special Morrison Stew to help us all go through this. The title is The Last Interview but there will never be a last interview with Toni. Her books live and talk to us. She could have said Read. But she said Write. And she is Right.

  Waiting for Jason

  I feel

  The sun

  But I look

  At the moon

  I watch

  The clouds dance

  Across the clear blue sky

  I sing a love song

  To the twinkling stars

  A mountain brook

  Babbles while ivy

  Holds tight

  The oak tree rocks

  New born owls

  To sleep

  And I sit

  With patches of cloth

  And snickles of cake

  And just a little bit

  Of cold red wine

  Waiting for Jason

  To come home

  For Scott

  Dear Scott:

  I know where you are . . . out in the clouds somewhere with me. Earth is so foolish right now that it’s a good idea to try Mars or even Pluto if you are brave. Those folk shooting unarmed men and sleeping women are not brave they are cowardly fools. Your students are lucky to have you when you come back in our galaxy to teach with them. I remember cooking for you all but you can’t do that now because of the virus so I guess the next best thing is singing for them. Or maybe you should have them sing for you. My students and I sang this year and they learned you do not have to have a good voice to sing. Plus my question to them was: if you sing who or what will answer. Hippos came to me and I was so happy because they are big and strong and they took good care of me. Other students had birds which sang them to sleep. Or maybe if you are not very careful you will be with me having a glass of beer and your students will be sad because they are too young to drink. I know, I know, they will think they can sneak and drink but sneaking is cheating and cheating is so trumpish and nobody wants to whine like that. So I’m inviting you to visit with me at Mars. I’ll have you back by Monday and you can tell your students that the Earth is as round as their heads. Or their grandmother’s biscuits. Or the dreams they dream as they float off to sleep. Your former teacher, Nikki

  The Longest Way Round

  Mommy taught

  3rd grade

  Her book was The Longest

  Way Round (Is The Shortest Way Home)

  I was an adult

  Before i realized

  How True

  Their marriage

  Is none of your business

  You don’t understand

  Your parents don’t owe

  You anything

  You finally say to yourself:

  They Have Nothing

  I want

  Except

  I remember this Blue Book

  With a wonderful title

  My Mother West Wind Stories

  And Mommy singing

  Time After Time

  It worked

  I am Happy

  The Sterling Silver Mirror

  (For DePaul University)

  No matter how the wind and the stars carried the news

  The slaves knew

  Sherman was coming

  All they had to do was wait:

  As they sang the Spiritual “Why Can’t I Wait on the Lord?”

  They had the patience to know He may not come

  When you call Him

  But He always comes on time

  My great-great-grandmother was a slave holding inside

  Her the first of our family to be born

  Free

  Sherman came burning the hate

  And greed freeing my ancestors

  My great-great-grandmother who had never seen her own face

  Carried her free baby and a sterling silver hand mirror away

  Cornelia whom we called MamaDear was the first

  To be born free

  MamaDear married Watson and birthed

  Three sons and a daughter

  MamaDear gave her youngest son the sterling silver mirror

  When he graduated from Fisk University

  We forget the enslaved had no way of knowing

  What they looked like except through the eyes of those who loved them

  The men had no shoes to wear other than their feet became leather

  Both were precious

  Grandpapa had shoes and the mirror

  Some in the family say

  The mirror was stolen

  But how can you steal when you were

  When I left my parents’ home I was the youngest daughter I took only

  Two things:

  A diamond pendant Sister Althea gave me for eighth grade graduation

  And The Sterling Silver Hand Mirror

  I am 81 years old: I have both still

  The Coal Cellar

  Electricity was late and expensive

  Coming to Appalachia

  Knoxville especially so

  Twice a month the coal

  Man would come to fill the cellar

  For warmth and sometimes food

  And what I loved most was the fireplace

  Where Grandmother and Grandpapa would sit

  Near to tell stories but

  Oak Ridge came for the War

  Or maybe the war came for Oak Ridge

  And atomic energy replaced coal

  And the cellar became a home for mice

  And maybe some insects which we never

  Needed to bother since they didn’t bother us

  One summer day Grandmother said

  To me “Since John Brown will be gone

  For the Conference why don’t we see what

  Is in the Cellar”

  I didn’t think anything but if your grandmother

  Asks you to go cellaring with her

  You go

  Way to the front she pulled a box out

  And handed it to me

  “See? I thought it would still be here”

  And we climbed out and up or maybe up and out

  And into the kitchen where we were both dripping

  With ash

  “This belongs to your great-grandmother

  Cornelia

  The first person born free”

  And there was a sterling silver dinner spoon and fork

  Black as can be but properly hallmarked

  “I’ll let you polish them”

  Which I did though it took

  Several days

  To bring them to silver

  I’ll bet there are many precious

  Things in the cellars

  Of Appalachia

  The most being the trust my grandmother

  Had in me to keep the silver polished

  And not discussed with anyone

  Maybe not a big bank account or trust fund

  And certainly not any property but I inherited

  A morning and a great deal of knowledge

  In a cold coal cellar

  With my grandmother

  The Bus Didn’t Stop

  Running running running

  The rain was at my back

  the wind was pushing me

  I didn’t want to fall

  But the bus was coming

  I needed to cross the street

  Curbs were splashing

  Maybe the cars would want to stop

  But what if they didn’t see me

  There was a green light

  I hit the crosswalk

  Damp and cold

  But the bus was not going to stop

  Then I stood

  Wet dripping

  On my walk to class

  Then quiet

  Darkness

  An explosion

  So hard everyone

  Covered

  Their ears

  Then the running

  The bodies flying

  Bags flying

  Screams

  The sidewalk folk running

  To help

  “Honey, Honey,” my mother called

  “Wake up or you’ll be late”

  I sat straight up

  Then

  Turned over

  Reading Other People’s Poems

  Seeing a line

  Or an image

  A metaphor

  Or maybe just a dream

  I read other people’s

  Poetry

  And wonder

  Why

  Didn’t I think

  Of that

  Not in envy

  Nor judgement

  Just something

  To do

  Until the oatmeal

  arrives

  Vote

  (2020)

  It’s not a hug

  Nor mistletoe at Christmas

  It’s not a colored egg

  At Easter

  Nor a bunny hopping

  Across the meadow

  It’s A Vote

  Saying you are

  A citizen

  Though it sometimes

  Is chocolate

  Or sometimes vanilla

  It can be a female

  Or a male

  It is right

  Or left

  I can agree

  Or disagree but

  And this is an important but

  I am a citizen

  I should be able

  To vote from prison

  I should be able

  To vote from the battlefield

  I should be able

  To vote when I get a driver’s license

  I should be able

  To vote when I can purchase a gun

  I must be able

  To vote

  If I’m in the hospital

  If I’m in the old folks’ home

  If I’m needing a ride

  To the Polling Place

  I am a citizen

  I must be able to vote

  Folks were lynched

  Folks were shot

  Folks’ communities were gerrymandered

  Folks who believed

  In the Constitution were lied to

  Burned out

  Bought and sold

  Because they agreed

  All Men Were Created Equal

  Folks vote to make us free

  It’s not cookies

  Nor cake

  But it is the icing

  That is so sweet

  Good for the Folks

  Good for Us

  Raise Your Hand

  (In Favor of Immigrants)

  how many of you sitting

  here

  think some woman of color

  Black Brown Yellow White

  woke up this morning thinking

  “Goooolly . . . I can go to the airport

  and clean toilets?”

  Raise your right hand

  how many of you sitting here

  woke up this morning thinking

  How lucky can they be

  Oh Lordy I wish I could

  do that

  Raise your left hand

  how many of us sitting

  here gave one dollar

  to those women knowing

  they are underpaid

  and not appreciated

  at all

  Raise either hand

  did you know if we all

  gave one dollar

  every time we urinated

  those women might

  take 100 dollars home

  to feed their mother

  their children

  their uncle who moved in with them

  their husband who will beat them

  Raise any hand

  how many of you

  when you see those women

  say thank God

  it’s not me

  Raise both your motherfucking hands

  and Clap

  Private Secrets

  (Like or No Like)

  Maybe there is no

  Problem

  We are watched only

  the question is

  in or out

  of jail

  We have no secrets

  since the world shrunk

  the icebergs melted

  and all the year books

  are digitized

  president trump measures

  his dick size

  though not the size

  of his heart

  and we press Like

  or No Like

  as if it mattered

  We are born

  with someone but

  no matter

  the obituary

  or the eulogy

  We die

  alone

  press Like

  or No

  Like

  You are your own

  Private

  Your own

  Secret

  Your own

  Life

  Press Like

  Or

  No Like

  It’s your face

  Book

  Tweet

  March on Washington 10th Anniversary

  Let’s recognize the obvious:

  If you want money

  You’ve got to work

  If you want sex

  You’ve got to love

  When you need community

  You have to commit

  If you want freedom

  You’ve got to struggle

  Some things will never

  Change

  Life is about

  The living

  Look

  (Something May Be There)

  I go down

  My mountain

  Five miles an hour because

  A mother chipmunk was running

  Across the street

  To take food

  To her babies

  I’m a black woman

  I run

  Across corners too

  To feed my son

  And granddaughter

  And I don’t want

  Them hit

  Because some one

  Was not looking

  We are Earthlings

  On the same planet

  In the same Galaxy

  Waiting for an Alien

  To come show me

  How to make biscuits

  I already know

  How

  To fry chicken wings

  A Praise Song for Roots by Alex Haley

  I was born in Tennessee in the old Knoxville General Hospital. I was the first person in my family born in a hospital. When my sister and cousins and I would argue they would say “You don’t even belong to us.” I don’t think I believed them but I did look at my family in a different way, sort of. I knew they were just being mean but I also thought Well, What if they’re right? What if I was picked up by accident? What if I belonged to someone else?

  We moved from Knoxville to Woodlawn, Ohio, which is north of Cincinnati. This was during the age of segregation. My mother and father had jobs which had not been possible in Knoxville. We rented a two-bedroom house: kitchen, sitting room and we had an outhouse. I remember the outhouse and for reasons I don’t understand have a fondness of that memory. In fact, when I bought my own home I had Dan make an outhouse out front to collect my mail. It’s a sentimental thing.

  We were poor. That’s understood. When my parents saved enough money to purchase a home in Lincoln Heights, a segregated community just outside Cincinnati, we all felt we were big stuff. Lincoln Heights didn’t have garbage collection so we had to burn our garbage. I loved it. The lot next door was empty and I remember the rabbits lived over there. Probably other things, too. I would chase the rabbits but I was never successful. I only wanted to play with them but they didn’t understand that. I guess all they knew about me was that I burned garbage every night. I would stand and watch the fire. I don’t think I worried so much about burning the house down as I was simply fascinated by fire. Some evenings I watched the moon. Mostly I remember just dreaming.

 

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