At Deep Midnight

    It's at dinnertime the stories come， abruptly，

    as they sit down to food predictable as ritual.

    Pink lady peas， tomatoes red as fat hearts

    sliced thin on a plate， cornbread hot， yellow

    clay made edible. The aunts hand the dishes

    and tell of people who've shadowed them， pesky

    terrors， ageing reflections that peer back

    in the glass when they stand to wash up at the sink.

    One sister shivers and fevers with malaria，

    lowland by the river where Papa tries to farm

    the old plantation.  Midnight， she calls to him

    to save her， there's money on fire， money between

    her thighs， money burning her up， she's dying.

    He brings no water but goes on his knees，

    jerks up the bedclothes， shouts something she

    has not said， has she？ Yelling at the invisible man

    he sees under the bed： Come out from there， you

    black rascal， you. Flapping the heavy sheets

    like angel wings， and smiling at his baby daughter

    who in her eighties shuffles her words briskly

    like a deck of playing cards， and laughs and says，

    We're all crazy here， lived around negroes too long.

    The oldest sister walks barefoot home from school

    trembling. At the curve by the Lightsey's house

    a black woman stands， bloody-handed， holding up

    a pale fetus from a slaughtered sow， laughing，

    I've killed me a baby， lookit the baby I killed.

    Beatrice looks past them all， sees the ramshackle houses

    past her grandmother's yard， the porch tin cans of snakeplants.

    Inside， sooty walls， from a hundred years' of pineknot smoke.

    Inside no bigger than a corncrib. The door shuts from outside.

    They can hear the board drop into the slot， the angry man

    shut in to stand stud， the woman on her back on cornshucks，

    who later， bloody， smothers her new daughter in rough homespun.

    Inside a white-washed， lamplit room， a man bends over

    a ledger： Boy Jacob Seventy-Five Dollars， Five Sows

    and Sixteen Piggs Twenty Dollars. His pen flickers：

    how fast could the pair he bought cheap increase five-fold

    because God had said replenish the earth and subdue it？

    Now the aunts are asking about her children， the boy

    babies who'd so pleased， with their white skin， silky

    crisp as new-printed money， a good thing too， with the farm

    lost long ago. Beatrice wonders if the youngest sister

    remembers the noon she snapped the bedroom door open

    on her， arched， aching， above the girl cousin， taking

    turns on the carefully made-up bed. Flushed like dove

    out of the room's dusty shade， they murmured denials.

    They ended the long kissing that gets no children.

    Her nipples had been brown-pink like a bitten-into fig，

    gritty sweet， never tasted， lost as her cousin dressed

    after a night they'd sunk together in the feather mattress

    hip to hip， hair tangled， kinky brown， springcoiled blonde，

    skin stuck to humid skin in the sandy damp sheets. Dressed，

    at breakfast， elbow to elbow， they ate biscuits and jelly.

    She never claimed her with a look， no wherewithal， no currency

    in love， no madness， no money， only a silent vacancy.

    Only the stupor of lying alone on the bed reading： The man

    takes the woman roughly in his arms， pushes her down. If

    she lay still enough， she might feel.  Pressing herself

    down. The bedspread's blunt crochet cuts into her face，

    her cheek rouged and gouged by the thread's harsh twist.

    They have more ice tea， the heat almost too much. The heat

    at deep midnight grinds into slight motion， whir of a fan.

    All sleeping， the aunts， the mother， the grown daughter. While

    from bed to bed， slow as the sodden air， move two young girls，

    white not-yet-swollen breasts， white underpants， white ghosts.

    They stand at each bed， watching， asking， their dark， light

    hair drifting like fire out from their unforgiving faces.