Hunter Blackwell
Foundations
Sweat droplets slide down my forehead. Flies hone in on burgers and beans.
A couple tables down laughter roars. I fight off flies
and the urge to scratch. Mom huffs, not thinking it’s too hot
for my eczema- she’s always wrong.
And I say nothing, gently hitting the scaly patch of dry skin.
She fusses if she sees me scratching.
Park benches are cramped, spreads of warming sodas and waters,
with fried chicken and fish, the potato salad sits right next to greens.
Shoulder to shoulder we sit, our cheeks pinched,
ringlets of cotton pulled as they grow from young girls head
who dare defy the hot comb--
aunties are ruthless, quick to debate who has good or bad hair.
Tomorrow, the older ladies will be dressed to their nines:
lace detailed shapeless dresses with hats to match, the fat of their feet
squeezed into stubby black heels, stockings making their legs ashy.
They’ll stomp and shout. “Preach on,” the choir cries, waving flimsy paper fans,
half of them advertising the local funeral home.
I will stare out of old stained glass windows, wishing sand would leave my mouth.
After church, the drive will be quiet, while looking out at over greenish- brown water.
Mom made a comment about an ill-fitting pair of pants on Friday.
When Saturday rolled around there was no mention of JCPenney.
Dad will sigh when I walk in and say, “No luck with Mom.”
He’ll offer to toss the football. I won’t be able to hold any extra weight.
But I am still on a park bench, as our family flesh melts
in a thick wet heat, next to hips that bump me by accident,
hips that widened and birthed the possibility of me,
next to stripped stomachs that carried legacies,
next to worn hands that smoothed my cheeks and said
I was becoming a beautiful young lady,
next to hands lingering too long at my doughy waist.
A couple tables down laughter roars. I fight off flies
and the urge to scratch. Mom huffs, not thinking it’s too hot
for my eczema- she’s always wrong.
And I say nothing, gently hitting the scaly patch of dry skin.
She fusses if she sees me scratching.
Park benches are cramped, spreads of warming sodas and waters,
with fried chicken and fish, the potato salad sits right next to greens.
Shoulder to shoulder we sit, our cheeks pinched,
ringlets of cotton pulled as they grow from young girls head
who dare defy the hot comb--
aunties are ruthless, quick to debate who has good or bad hair.
Tomorrow, the older ladies will be dressed to their nines:
lace detailed shapeless dresses with hats to match, the fat of their feet
squeezed into stubby black heels, stockings making their legs ashy.
They’ll stomp and shout. “Preach on,” the choir cries, waving flimsy paper fans,
half of them advertising the local funeral home.
I will stare out of old stained glass windows, wishing sand would leave my mouth.
After church, the drive will be quiet, while looking out at over greenish- brown water.
Mom made a comment about an ill-fitting pair of pants on Friday.
When Saturday rolled around there was no mention of JCPenney.
Dad will sigh when I walk in and say, “No luck with Mom.”
He’ll offer to toss the football. I won’t be able to hold any extra weight.
But I am still on a park bench, as our family flesh melts
in a thick wet heat, next to hips that bump me by accident,
hips that widened and birthed the possibility of me,
next to stripped stomachs that carried legacies,
next to worn hands that smoothed my cheeks and said
I was becoming a beautiful young lady,
next to hands lingering too long at my doughy waist.
Biography
Hunter Blackwell (she/her) is a poet and author. Her previous work as appeared in The Write Launch, Barren Magazine, Nightingale & Sparrow, among others. She can be found at her website hunterblackwell.wordpress.com or @hun_blackwell on Twitter, where she’s always looking for new recipes to try.
