The house is big and white,
and tangled in vines.
The front door is green,
with a pineapple doorknob,
and outside the door
are rows of shoes in all different sizes.
I am about to place the yams on the doorstep,
when I hear someone singing
Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,”
but there’s no music, just a voice
from somewhere deep inside.
I take out the paper bags,
balance them in my arms,
and knock.
wait. wait. wait.
I knock one more time.
Then, just when I think
I might be able to walk away,
a creak, the knob turns, and the door opens slowly.
It doesn’t open far,
only a crack
about the size of my hand.
It’s dark inside.
I wait for someone to say hello,
but no one does.
I smell something,
like the oil in the frying pan
when my mother made latkes for Hanukkah.
I wait with the greens and purple yams.
I’m not sure why, but my heart is pounding.
I hear a girl’s voice from inside:
You can just leave it.
Usually, after a delivery, I get a tip,
sometimes a dollar, sometimes candy,
so I wait for a second.
Anything else? she says
through the crack in the door. Silence.
Okay, I think.
I close my backpack and turn
to look at the mailbox one more time.
But then I hear her say something else:
Thanks for bringing the ube.
I turn around.
They’re called ube. Purple yams?
The door starts to shut,
and I glimpse eyes through
the doorway.
See you later, she says.