tonight, when i change my air reservations
so i can come to baltimore to honor lucille,
the woman on the other side of the wire
at us air is bland
and doesn't laugh easy. i'm trying to communicate
not just that i have to change
my reservation, but that i have to change
it for the most important
reason. maybe if us air
knows i'm coming
for lucille, they'll say,
"shucks, if it's for lucille, just
go free, forget about the change
fee," so, as introduction, i say, "ever heard of
lucille clifton ?" "no." i am always
flabbergasted about what
people don't know,
but i go on and
make the ordinary
reservation, getting charged the hundred
bucks, and as she gives me
dates and times and numbers, we get
a little warmer, till
at the end i say, "want to hear
a poem by her," and she answers with
her voice a new up-sweep, "yes." i run down
the stairs with the phone like it's
a new person in my house, a real
woman coming to life somewhere close
to my mouth and ear, and find it
alphabetical on the shelf, good woman
jumps into my hand. i open to the first poem
and read:
in the inner city
or
like we call
it home
we think a lot about uptown
and the silent nights
and the houses straight as
dead men
and the pastel lights
and we hang on to our no place
happy to be alive
and in the inner city
or
like we call it
home
to this black
woman who sounds
tired of making
reservations and the people
who think theirs are
importent beyond the real.
"want to hear another," and she says
"yes," even happier, "that was really
good," and i open to:
i was born with twelve fingers
like my mother and my daughter.
each of us
born wearing strange black gloves
extra baby fingers hanging over the sides of our cribs
and dipping into the milk.
somebody was afraid we would learn to cast spells
and our wonders were cut off
but they didn't understand
the powerful memory of ghosts.
now we take what we want
with invisible fingers
and we connect
my dead mother my live daughter and me
through our terrible shadowy hands.
she says
"that is wonderful," and now she sounds as close to me as
love, and i say, "and lucille didn't have an easy
life. she's had breast cancer, she had to have
dialysis, a kidney transplant, and she lost her daughter
not too long ago. if you saw her you'd
know that she's real, i mean, you'd know
she's great, but you'd see she's
real. she has some special
connection to the center and all that
energy comes from there. you'd really
like her," then i read about her
cutting greens:
curling them around
i hold their bodies in an obscene embrace
thinking of everything but kinship.
collards and kale
strain against each strange other
away form my kissmaking hand and
the iron bedpot.
the pot is black
the cutting board is black
my hand,
and just for a minute
the greens roll black under the knife,
and the kitchen twists dark on its spine
and i taste in my natural appetite
the bond of live things everywhere.
when i read the last line about
connecting to everything, the operator says,
"that is really beautiful. you know, i am
really moved, and i will, i really will look her
up. my name is treesy, and last week i found out that my
nine year old daughter has cancer, and i want to
get that book and read those poems
to her. she will really
like them." i said, "isn't it
wonderful that we met and i got
to read you
lucille? after i lost my mother lucille told me
'when you loose the flesh
you get more power.' and it's like that, like
the miracle of meeting you, you
meeting lucille, and just now
