Summer 2020 Archive
Poetry
SHE DIED BEFORE OBAMA
-for my sister
By Cynthia Robinson Young
Remember how she worked?
Left school when she was sixteen
at the factory she was always on time
General Electric wouldn’t have it any other way
punch in
punch out
punch in again
Foreman always watching
She hardly spoke back
or asked for a little respect
when foreign hands roamed
when icy blue eyes rested on her
a little too long
She never took days off
not even when we were sick
but called us during her lunch hour
and during her smoking break
to remind us to keep up the salt water rinse
and promised to make Campbell’s Chicken Noodle
when she got home at four
When she went on strike
and joined her friends in line,
in hopes of something better
for her
for us
for everyone in the house
depending on her
She did it with money
that insurance plan
she invested in
since we were little girls
hiding in the curtains
from the only white man we knew in a suit
who, once a month came to collect
those dollars she pocketed away
for her two daughters
Half orphaned at nine and fourteen
She made us go to college
She made us co-sign at the bank
told us to prepare
to pay it forward
then found a car
to drive us to the Ivy Towers
white landscaped more than black
white landscaped more than brown
white landscaped more than Newark
and advised us to return
made us promise to be somebody
kept saying Yes You Can
She died investing money
a few dollars here and there
pensions and retirement
riches written on paper
and tucked in the leather brown purse
that could burn up in an instant
if we didn’t grab it in a fire
She was always saving
dollars tucked inside bras
dollars hidden away from the men
because we never know how men can be
She died
waiting for retirement
She died
waiting for a chance to rest
from working two and three jobs
She died
before she held
her ninth grandchild,
read to her tenth
and spoiled her eleventh
She died
before she saw the ones
who looked the most like her
She died
after she had buried
Her husband
Her sister
Her own mother
She died
before she taught us
how to take her place
Before she taught us
how to stop weeping
how long will it take
to stop searching for her
in every brown mama face?
She died before
she taught us
How to bury the dead
when to bury the dead
meant
to bury our mother.
-for my sister
By Cynthia Robinson Young
Remember how she worked?
Left school when she was sixteen
at the factory she was always on time
General Electric wouldn’t have it any other way
punch in
punch out
punch in again
Foreman always watching
She hardly spoke back
or asked for a little respect
when foreign hands roamed
when icy blue eyes rested on her
a little too long
She never took days off
not even when we were sick
but called us during her lunch hour
and during her smoking break
to remind us to keep up the salt water rinse
and promised to make Campbell’s Chicken Noodle
when she got home at four
When she went on strike
and joined her friends in line,
in hopes of something better
for her
for us
for everyone in the house
depending on her
She did it with money
that insurance plan
she invested in
since we were little girls
hiding in the curtains
from the only white man we knew in a suit
who, once a month came to collect
those dollars she pocketed away
for her two daughters
Half orphaned at nine and fourteen
She made us go to college
She made us co-sign at the bank
told us to prepare
to pay it forward
then found a car
to drive us to the Ivy Towers
white landscaped more than black
white landscaped more than brown
white landscaped more than Newark
and advised us to return
made us promise to be somebody
kept saying Yes You Can
She died investing money
a few dollars here and there
pensions and retirement
riches written on paper
and tucked in the leather brown purse
that could burn up in an instant
if we didn’t grab it in a fire
She was always saving
dollars tucked inside bras
dollars hidden away from the men
because we never know how men can be
She died
waiting for retirement
She died
waiting for a chance to rest
from working two and three jobs
She died
before she held
her ninth grandchild,
read to her tenth
and spoiled her eleventh
She died
before she saw the ones
who looked the most like her
She died
after she had buried
Her husband
Her sister
Her own mother
She died
before she taught us
how to take her place
Before she taught us
how to stop weeping
how long will it take
to stop searching for her
in every brown mama face?
She died before
she taught us
How to bury the dead
when to bury the dead
meant
to bury our mother.
