Willie Bell Smith always
reeked of Evan Williams
mixed warmly with Prince Albert tobacco
no matter the time of day or occasion.
She bore a continuous, toothless smile
combined with drunken lanky hugs
ready for you, or anyone that looked her way,
gave her half a chance for a smokey wet kiss.
Graceful, pretty, demure – she was not.
No one would have ever guessed
she was the mother of
one so eloquent or placid
in appearance as Mary.
Mary,
with slanted eyes, full red lips,
ebony skin, thick black hair
that touched the top of her small round hips
- could have easily passed for a Nubian Queen
had she been properly costumed.
Instead of gold bangles and royal attire
Mary was Willie Bell's daughter,
Charles’ widow.
Charles who died at 35.
Cancer ate him from the inside out
after years of workin in the fertilizer plant.
Charles, her serene love. The father of her 7 children.
Of course,
he was just a colored boy in the rural South–
so the fertilizer plant felt no need to pay a thing.
That’s what happens to poor colored boys.
Mary took her mourning,
tossed it with her determination
moved her 7 kids to the 'white side' of town.
While Willie Bell drank whiskey and
watched the kids play in the yard,
Mary earned a living.
She cleaned white folks houses,
drove a bus, scrubbed toilets,
made sure they missed no meals,
all 7 had shoes for school, ribbons for their hair,
the dishes were washed, the leaves were raked.
Mary loved and had been loved
all the ways she felt were needed.
She knows one day, she’ll have her Charles back.
She’ll tell him about puttin' the kids to bed,
layin' in the front room
under the white chenille spread,
wishin he was there to finish the braid in her long side plait.
She'll put her hand on his thigh and tell him how,
finally,
she was the one that got to sit under the magnolia
and see their grandkids play.
Watchin the sky, wishin for him.
reeked of Evan Williams
mixed warmly with Prince Albert tobacco
no matter the time of day or occasion.
She bore a continuous, toothless smile
combined with drunken lanky hugs
ready for you, or anyone that looked her way,
gave her half a chance for a smokey wet kiss.
Graceful, pretty, demure – she was not.
No one would have ever guessed
she was the mother of
one so eloquent or placid
in appearance as Mary.
Mary,
with slanted eyes, full red lips,
ebony skin, thick black hair
that touched the top of her small round hips
- could have easily passed for a Nubian Queen
had she been properly costumed.
Instead of gold bangles and royal attire
Mary was Willie Bell's daughter,
Charles’ widow.
Charles who died at 35.
Cancer ate him from the inside out
after years of workin in the fertilizer plant.
Charles, her serene love. The father of her 7 children.
Of course,
he was just a colored boy in the rural South–
so the fertilizer plant felt no need to pay a thing.
That’s what happens to poor colored boys.
Mary took her mourning,
tossed it with her determination
moved her 7 kids to the 'white side' of town.
While Willie Bell drank whiskey and
watched the kids play in the yard,
Mary earned a living.
She cleaned white folks houses,
drove a bus, scrubbed toilets,
made sure they missed no meals,
all 7 had shoes for school, ribbons for their hair,
the dishes were washed, the leaves were raked.
Mary loved and had been loved
all the ways she felt were needed.
She knows one day, she’ll have her Charles back.
She’ll tell him about puttin' the kids to bed,
layin' in the front room
under the white chenille spread,
wishin he was there to finish the braid in her long side plait.
She'll put her hand on his thigh and tell him how,
finally,
she was the one that got to sit under the magnolia
and see their grandkids play.
Watchin the sky, wishin for him.
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