In my mama’s photos they stare out directly, uncompromising.…
I thought them beautiful and frightening.
Dorothy Allison, Two or Three Things I Know for Sure
My maternal people are short and stout, thick-waisted
with unshapely legs and ankles like blocks. In a silent
home movie the camera pans around the circle
of women sitting in lawn chairs in the yard. They wear
dresses—short-sleeved shirtwaists with matching
fabric belts that sit right under their ample bosoms.
Their bellies round out softly like rising dough.
My maternal people never wore shorts or pants.
Some don aprons because they must move
in and out of the hot kitchen, bringing food to men
or to children, who are in other circles. When they talk,
my maternal people wave their heavy arms loudly,
hefty punctuations signaling a punchline. Their hands
are veined arrows, always pointing the right way.