Mangoes ripening in a wicker basket—
tough and green, you could skin them
and eat them with salt. In the oven,
the softening flesh of salmon,
waiting to be pulled out and served
with yellow grits and butter. My mother
was away when two visitors came knocking.
What I can describe is the powder-blue
chalk-outlined hopscotch box, beginning
with your first step off the fading beige
front porch so that you could jump or drop
into play the way you might slip into a riff
of your granddaddy’s country twang and wisdom.
What I can describe is the flaking
floral porch column and brown coir
welcome mat—rough to the touch
of bare feet or, if for some reason,
the sensitive skin of the cheek.
My cousin lived in the fenced-in house
across the street before he slept on our couch.
His mother lived next door in a seaweed-green
duplex with a small backyard and a metal line
used to air-dry damp clothes. She was alive
when the visitors came, or she wasn’t.
All I have is one good shoulder, two good feet,
and memory: the elementary-school field trip
where I eased out to the bathroom, then quenched
my thirst at the watercooler while the other kids
cheesed and marveled at the fingerprinting process.
I think they used black ink, black like these visitors’ uniforms.
I tell these men, the man they seek
never lived here, has left no valuables
or products, no secrets but the mystery
of his brief life. When they demand
a more senior presence, my grandmother
cracks the door a little wider and speaks
with the detachment of a disembodied voice:
We do not speak to the dead, it’s against our beliefs.
We do not trifle with ghosts, even ones we birthed.
Jalen Eutsey was a 2022–2024 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University. His poems have appeared in The Yale Review, Best New Poets, Nashville Review, Poetry Northwest, and The Hopkins Review.
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