INQUISITION
Jelisha Winter is past its prime. Sniffles of spring infect the air. My stomach is singing louder than I am— a requiem of hunger. Dinner is in grave clothes. Breakfast eludes me. I am left with longing. It’s an hour before lunch when a curious first grader converts my classroom into a stage of inquisition. Her voice is small, probing. “Miss Walker, do you have a Mama?” “Yes, I do.” A chorus of six year-old voices echoes throughout the room, “Everybody got a Mama.” “What’s her name?” “Mary.” My answer is like a conductor’s baton. From different sections of the room I hear, “My mother’s name is Mary.” “My grandmother’s name is Mary.” Questions fill her eyes, blind them like closed shutters. My skin is the color of night. Still she asks, “Is she black?” “Yes, she is.” She is relentless with her interview, determination stronger than a bear trap. “Do you have a father?” “Yes, I do.” “What’s his name?” “Robert.” “Do you have a husband?” “No, I don’t.” “I gotta hook you up then.” When you hook me up, connect my limbs to love’s green vines. Bind my hands with soft cords of passion, then leave me singing in winter’s aging joy. - Loretta Diane Walker Published in Word Ghetto |