Lynne Thompson

Queens

conjure man spits out pieces of glass,
pins, needles, nails, shells, vials, lizards,
spiders, flies, cat's teeth, snakeskins
and fragments of bone.

- from Dubbies, Drum Talk & Obeah Men
Gerald Hausman & Ray Griffin

We sisters have always been proper, proper, proper.
Told we were descended from queens.
Black queens and white queens.
Nefertiti & Victoria telling
their daughters' daughters' daughters:

Watch out. Behind the door.
Obeah-man got a secret
and it ain't 'bout no queens, baby.
He say: Remember your auntie?
The last queen before the queen
that was your mother? The last proper
with her legs crossed just above the ankles?
She bought your throne! Bought it
with her strong black thighs.
Bought it from the church parading
in the body of a pale Scot minister.
Your auntie, she say: "Lie down
on me bed, Father, lie down.
Curry this callaloo, pepperpot,
allspice, all the time. Crown me,
sweet Jesus. Answer me prayers."

And you that came after? Queens, baby,
every one of you - proper, proper proper.

Who Dances?

You are six. You believe
that my sole reason for being
is to corner happiness for you.
So, every Saturday morning
when we go out the door,
leaving your father to fold
his hopes in my lingerie, you
hugging the leather suitcase
full of tiny tutu you will wear
at Ms. Black's School for Girls,
me lighting the week's first Virginia Slim
and exhaling its smoky O of dreams,
you never guess that your ballet lessons -
where your legs and arms arrange themselves
into tour jetés, grand pliés & pas de bourreés -
those three hours off my clock -
are the times
my sole reason for being