UAB Digital Commons (Univ. of Alabama at Birmingham)

Brown, M L

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 07 Article 29 
2007 
Relief from Small Town Boredom 
M L. Brown 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Brown, M L. (2007) "Relief from Small Town Boredom," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 07, 
Article 29. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol07/iss2007/29 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
M. L. Brown 
RELIEF FROM SMALL TOWN BOREDOM 
An eye in a clutch of fish eggs 
watches the underside of water bugs, the skim 
of a flycatcher feeding on the wing. 
The halo above is the face of a girl 
belly down on the bridge 
watching the eye of the place she names 
Water on Both Sides. 
She watches and watches, no thought to the divine 
just relief from small-town boredom. 
Lured into water and muck 
she lies with the pickerel and horned pout. 
Scooter bugs pump and glide. 
She knows the names of nothing, yet 
conjures everything a name. 
Distraction is the order of things: 
the creep ofloosestrife, 
the rub of praying mantis palms, 
the hiss of the fisherman's cast, 
the strike of his hook in the white 
of her blouse. 
' 


English

Relief from Small Town Boredom

Brieschke, Patricia

Cracking Open

Covington, Vicki

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 07 Article 41 
2007 
The Haircut 
Vicki Covington 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Covington, Vicki (2007) "The Haircut," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 07, Article 41. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol07/iss2007/41 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Vicki Covington 
THE HAIRCUT 
Briton is a scientist. He used to work at Southern Research 
Institute until the late eighties when they laid off half the staff, 
including him. He got a divorce, his daughter graduated from 
Milsaps, and he lived on the edge-making money playing 
pool and gambling. 
Eventually, he bought a photography store called The Dark 
Room. He knew what he was doing and the best artists in 
Birmingham emptied their film to his hands. The business 
was lucrative until the booze got him and his store was in a 
bad fire. 
This was when I took him in. 
Like most men over the age of fifty, Briton has followed 
after his barber. Nobody can cut a man's hair but whoever's 
been doing it for twenty years or fifty. I had to drive my 
father-after he got sick, to the same barber whdd been cut-
ting Daddy's hair since 1947. 
Briton's barber was a man he'd worked with at The 
Institute, back when science mattered enough to the govern-
ment to keep money coming in. Once the scientists lost their 
jobs, they also lost the ten-dollar haircut by the Coke machine 
near the rat experiment labs. The barber had to decide what 
to do when the guys started asking if he'd still be cutting their 
hair. He said they'd have to invite him to their house because 
his wife didn't like to sweep. 
He'd make housecalls on hair like his father had made 
house calls on black-and-white TV sets. 
Briton asked me, during the spring after I'd sold the house 
in the suburbs and kicked him out, if the barber could come 
here, to the place I'd moved to on Cullom Street, and cut 
his-Briton's-hair in the grand parlor of the hundred-year-old 
house I was renting. The haircut made sense in that there was 
a lot of open space, a hardwood floor, plenty oflight. 
I told him yes if the barber could give me and Danner free 
122 
poemmemoir story 
haircuts-meaning Briton would pay him for us, too. Dan-
ner is one of my twins. She's 21 but unlike her brother, she 
doesrit give a rip about stylists. Neither do I. All we need is 
the ends trimmed. 
Danner had received a medical discharge from the Marine 
Corps back in the summer. Her brother was studying biol-
ogy at a community college, under a Pell Grant. Today, she'd 
dropped in unexpectedly. This happened to be the day Briton 
had asked the barber to come by my place for the twelve-noon 
haircuts. Danner glanced up at the transom, took in the cathe-
dral ceilings, her hands on her hips. 
Her arms were ivory, deceptively swanlike. 
Boot camp had toned her body so that a perfect arc of a 
muscle was under the demure skin, hidden from the enemy. 
But I knew every system in her body was trained, alert, vigi-
lant, ready. I dorit hold it against the United States Marine 
Corps that they make a good product. I was sold when I saw 
her company graduate at Parris Island-sixty girls who, no 
matter how they came in, came out weighing exactly the same 
right weight, every specimen identical to the girl next to you, 
whdd jump in front of fire to save you and you for her. 
I bit my tongue to avoid saying how different it all sounded 
knowing the Marines were women. But Danner didrit want 
to discuss gender issues in the military with a civilian like me 
just yet. 
"But I'm your mother." 
"Yes, and you're a civilian." 
Danner straddled the piano bench, running her fingers 
through her light brown Marine cut. A pageboy. She was 
daunting-tall like her father, gorgeous like me. Plus, she was 
freshly in love with a private first class she'd met at Twenty-
Nine Palms where, in the desert land of California, they were 
learning to be field operators in Iraq. 
Then she'd broken her hand in a thousand ways. 
I didrit know how to ask her if she knew when her boy-
friend would be deployed. 
"I hate to bring this up," I told her. 
I wasrit going to ask her about her Marine or the war. I 
was going to have to ask her now about Briton and the barber. 
r-M-~ 123 
Covington 
She'd tolerated Briton being at the house during her senior 
year of high school. In her mind, she must have chalked 
Briton up to substitute sick man for me to take care of while 
her father was away. 
"What?" she asked, standing. 
I backed up-the presence of her, knowing she knew how 
to kill. 
"What do you hate to bring up?" 
She ran her fingers over her arms and legs as if beauty 
were lint she could brush off. 
Danner was the stronger twin, at birth. 
She was sturdier, growing up. 
Her brother's coming-out had been particularly difficult, 
not because of us, his family, whdd known of course for many 
years, maybe even before he knew. But we were a downwardly 
mobile family in a nice suburb way too conservative for any 
ofus. 
It left the kids cautious, and closer to their dad and me 
than most kids are. 
But Danner bloomed when her brother let us know he was 
who he was. His orientation became her crusade, a protective-
ness, a loyalty I never knew possible since they'd spent a child-
hood in spats, each hating being a twin to a dork. 
Danner's abrupt leap in to the Marines had tossed all the 
cards in the air. 
We were stunned she enlisted and downright startled that 
day we saw her at graduation. 
"It is very civilian the way you are looking at me but 
nobody is saying anything," she told us on the tarmac on that 
blistering day at Parris Island. We, her family-her dad, her 
brother, and me-were confused but so in awe of whatever 
she'd become, we agreed, "yes, yes, we are acting very civil-
ian," even though we weren'.t sure what that meant. "We wont 
do it again," we told her as she walked us past the yellow foot-
prints painted on the paved field to welcome new recruits. 
Now, a year later, we sat there in the house on Cullom 
Street. 
"Mom, what?" Danner laughed. "What were you going 
to ask me, have you already forgotten?" 
I sat in the mustard color chair that belonged to my 
124 
poemmemoir story 
grandmother. I leaned forward, my hands clasped and resting 
on the skirt I was wearing, the linen one that has a drawstring 
for a touch of Bohemia. Danner moved to the chair beside 
mine and patted my hand as if to let me know even before the 
words left my lips that she knew I was going to tell her some-
thing about Briton, something I was doing for Briton. The bar-
ber and the free haircut, if she wanted one-were just asides. 
The constant here was that I was still taking care of Briton in 
even a minor way and she didn't like that. 
"A haircut here?" she asked, gesturing to the wide open 
space the room allowed. 
"Yes. It's easy to sweep hair off hardwood floors." 
"And you are the only person Briton knows who has hard-
wood floors," she said. 
I waited for the rest. 
"I like Briton," she told me, evenly. 
I waited for the final point. 
"It's just that trouble follows after him like a curse. I worry 
about you, Mom." 
"So, do you want a haircut?" I asked, meekly. 
"Sure," she shrugged. 
Briton burst in like a man whdd just survived a plane crash-
disheveled, apologetic, and sweating. Danner hugged Briton 
sideways, the perfunctory way kids do when seeing a friend of 
their parents they haven't seen in a while. 
"I'm not late," he said, a statement. 
"This is good," Danner told him. His long hair just added 
to his barbaric yet oddly handsome look. Briton was an athe-
ist, but he reminded me of John the Baptist-the description 
of him roaring in the wilderness, his loincloth, the honey and 
locusts he ate while he shouted, Prepare the way! 
The barber's knock was a light rap on the door. 
I let him in. 
He was shorter than the rest of us. He wore jeans, he had 
a headful of sandy hair that resembled a thick flattop but the 
back wasn't crew-shaved. It's like electricity made every strand 
shoot upward and outward, making him appear to be an actor 
playing the part of a pirate, a clown, a madman. 
Covington 
The barber told Briton to just sit down in the chair I'd 
brought in, relax, and let him take care of the rest. I think 
what he actually said was, "and leave the driving to us," as he 
lifted, shook, and dropped the smock the way barbers do-like 
they're making sure the last customer's germs fly away. 
I sat on the piano bench beside Danner. 
Danner and I both like to size people up and we're both 
real good at it. Call it what you want: intuition, listening skills, 
discernment. It still makes my skin crawl to think of the gov-
ernment teaching Danner to like her M-16, before they even 
considered the fact she'd make a great profiler. 
But today, we listened to the scissor cuts and made a quick 
mental checklist of the barber's background, personality, poli-
tics, and whether he tended to be predator or prey. 
You might call it-what we do-a litmus test. 
For a while, it was all looking good for the barber. Danner 
was impressed, I could tell, that Briton was paying for some-
thing. The barber was from here. He'd married a girl from the 
high school where Danner's father and I graduated. He was a 
musician, an old hippy, he read the right magazines. He was 
flamboyant in his storytelling-pausing to make a point, using 
his scissors for emphasis. 
Briton, undergoing the haircut, waited with wet hair hang-
ing over his eyes. 
In no time, Briton was done. 
"Nice cut, Brit," Danner noted. 
The barber shook the smock free of Briton's salt-and-pep-
per hair. He motioned me to sit in the chair. We were using an 
antique Martha Washington because of its straight back. 
I kept up the banter while he cut my hair. 
By the time he got to Danner, I realized he'd been there an 
hour and a half. He'd told Briton he only had thirty minutes. 
But he didn't seem to mind taking a long lunch break. In fact, 
he appeared to be having a blast. And so were we all-laugh-
ing at his jokes, thinking how cool and savvy and Southside 
this whole thing was, getting haircuts in the apartment on 
Cullom Street. 
I don't know how it happened-what happened, that is. 
I've asked Danner and Briton what they remembered and they 
126 
poemmemoirstory 
wererit able to say exactly what prompted the awful thing, but 
both agreed that I was down to the nitty-gritty questions I ask 
people, by the time Danner was in the barber's chair. They 
said I was circling politics. 
I guess I wanted to make sure he was a Democrat ifhe was 
cutting my daughter's hair. 
And he spoke of being in the Army during Vietnam but 
didrit have to go. 
"Where were you stationed?" Danner asked. 
"Fort Polk, Louisiana," he drawled. 
"So was my dad," Danner said, lifting her head up to see if 
I'd heard. 
"The Army had trouble with me," he told us. 
"They did with my dad, too!" Danner replied. 
The barber wasrit listening when she went on to say, "He 
was the editor of an underground newspaper called the Fort 
Polk Puke. He was a radical, he's great," she concluded but I 
saw the barber not paying attention to her. 
"I was a Marine," she told him quietly. 
"Put your head back down," he instructed her. 
"She knows what to do," I snapped. 
"The Army didrit like me," he said to no one in particular. 
"Why's that?" I asked, standing as if to survey the haircut. 
"My religion didrit suit them," he sneered. 
"In what way?" I asked, wanting to probe that dark hole. 
I kept my eyes on his scissors. 
"I wanted to have bible study and that wasrit cool with the 
army," he told me. 
I wanted this to play on out right. I wanted to like the 
barber. I like people. I give them the benefit of the doubt. 
So I was thinking: he's like us still, maybe. There were times 
Danner and I wanted to study the bible and nobody was 
interested. 
The sun was falling in slats through the venetian blinds, 
into the room and on Danner' s locks as they hit the floor. 
"They didrit like the name of Jesus," he told us. 
This must have been the place where I put my foot to the 
floorboard, wanting to make sure. There are, after all, two 
kinds of Christians. I carit remember what it was I said. In 
127 
Covington 
fact, I think I started it off by acting silly. I went to the piano 
to play, "Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the 
world. Red and yellow black and white," then I added, "gay or 
straight, it's always right." I expected a laugh. 
The barber's hands froze. 
"What did you say?" he asked me. 
He stopped cutting Danner's hair and stood with the scis-
sors in hand but this time not to give a real punch to some-
thing funny he was saying. He didn't even wait for me to 
answer. He looked squarely in to my eyes. 
The room was quiet. We waited for him to turn it to comic 
relief but he didn't. 
Instead he said, "Gay people are an abomination to God." 
I glanced at Briton to see if the barber might be joking 
with me. 
Briton's Nordic face grew more stoic than usual, his dark 
eyes were narrowing, and, no, he didn't think the guy was like 
this at all or he certainly wouldn't have brought him in to my 
house, my family. He knew Danner's brother. 
"What was that word?" I pressed the barber. 
"Abomination?" he asked, nonchalantly. 
I saw Danner's eyes through the final layer of uncut hair 
falling over her face. She'd talked to her brother on the phone 
every day since she'd been discharged from The Corps. A tiny 
blue vein of family blood was pulsating along her temple-
hungry and mad. 
Yet she was also caught, a deer in headlights. 
"Danner's brother is," I told the barber, the room spinning 
with the vertigo of my rage. 
"Is?" the barber asked. 
"He's gay, motherfucker," Briton said. 
I was suddenly glad Briton got into fist fights. I knew I'd 
need him for something someday. 
Danner's shoulders dropped as if she might cry. And I 
hated the vulnerability she was in, that I'd put her in. The hair 
yet to be snipped was now a veil covering her face and she was 
one of the oppressed women on the other side of the world, 
waiting for a Marine like Danner to set her free. But I knew 
what was running through her mind: she had been trained 
128 
poemmemoir story 
by the best force in the world- the United States Marine 
Corps-to kill. She had enlisted. She was a recruit in a war 
she didn't agree with because that's what her daddy had done 
during Vietnam. She was prepared to fight a war to protect the 
very system that had failed her, and willing to defend and keep 
safe people like the barber. Yet, she knew she couldn't, in this 
moment, do what every fiber in her being was telling her to 
do. She couldn't and wouldn't stand, turn, and slug the barber. 
Because the haircut wasn't over. 
And it was free. 
And we were poor. 
129 


The Haircut

Jeffers, Honorée Fanonne

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 08 Article 17 
2008 
Remembering Esopus 
Honorée Fanonne Jeffers 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Jeffers, Honorée Fanonne (2008) "Remembering Esopus," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 08, 
Article 17. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol08/iss2008/17 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Honoree Fanonne Jeffers 
REMEMBERING ESOPUS 
Cave Ganem, June 1996 
1. 
A twisting path. We stumbled down to the Hudson, blind, 
silly, calling out names of dead slaves, hoping we could make 
the North Star appear. In the morning, saints to contend with back 
on the hill. Doors opened on us sinners, then shut of their own accord. 
A church grew from the monastery's belly. 
2. 
Maybe everything was a crosscurrent of air and poems 
that week, but you had good intentions, didn't you, when you touched 
my hand the first night and said, I'm so glad you're here. Days later, 
we were still strangers but you held me and wept and you couldn't stop, 
though in real life you probably deny all this. 
3. 
The two of us said black poets would change everything. 
A charging of the gates. A revolution dressed up in cute outfits. 
A thumbing our noses at Mr. Charlie's poesy. A reckoning 
with New England. One of us pretends this actually happened, 
instead of admitting ain't too much different. We're living 
Phillis's life, remastered. 
42 
4. 
In your defense, it's not really a lie if you believe what 
you're saying at the time. Let me try: I was hip to you 
from the word get; I'd heard your tropes before; your face means 
nothing to me now, only a vernacular refusing to age; 
I hope I'm not embarrassing you; I didn't want to marry you; 
I wasn't in love with you or your poems or the bricks 
of your neighborhood or your beautiful, cooing voice; 
and I can shoot a basketball with the best of them, too-that's right, 
all the way from the half-court. 
5. 
Another summer, I learned Esopus means 
the river runs two ways. I thought of water on the brink 
of indecision, and that sounded so wonderful to me that I told 
too many people, then I thought to look it up and learned 
I had been lying again. Esopus is derived from high banks. 
It means wilderness undisturbed by ambition. 
Beauty out of reach. One black man underneath 
a short-lived, black sky. 
43 


Remembering Esopus

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 08 Article 18 
2008 
Who Won't Inherit 
Honorée Fanonne Jeffers 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Jeffers, Honorée Fanonne (2008) "Who Won't Inherit," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 08, 
Article 18. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol08/iss2008/18 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Honoree Fanonne Jeffers 
WHO WON'T INHERIT 
Joseph's Pharaoh had a dream 
in the Testament of old, 
seven fat cows eaten by seven of the lean-
a hated parable of God's departure 
in an empty-bellied desert, 
and because of what is written, 
we who are strong believe there is mercy-
there must be-there must be-
for those who survive. 
Sorry, so sorry, for those reduced to dust. 
* 
I have seen a woman hit by moving violence 
and though she believed she would break, 
she arose, a smug Lazarus of another Good Book, 
to walk and think and breathe again. 
She was touched by divine caprice (Amen), 
and shook her fist at what tried to bleed her dry, 
but another woman, hit in kind-
her mind cracked open wide. 
Her body sealed tight again, 
but her fate cackled inside. 
* 
44 
I hope you see this is no parable, 
my talk of the then and the now. 
This tale of fat, placid beasts and their hungry kin. 
This dream of the weak who won't inherit-
and the sated spending till nothing's left. 
45 


Who Won\u27t Inherit

deGannes, Nehassaiu

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 08 Article 25 
2008 
Ocean Voyager 
Nehassaiu deGannes 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
deGannes, Nehassaiu (2008) "Ocean Voyager," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 08, Article 25. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol08/iss2008/25 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Nehassaiu deGannes 
OCEAN VOYAGER 
"Sepia Swan" 
mother quivers 
at my cheek 
"let this face 
I float 
be your passport-
smooth as cream:' 
out of port 
New Amsterdam, 
legs snuffed 
under water-
silk skirts. 
I Tubman 
other Creole 
daughters across. 
Mount 
the distance, fixing 
my one good eye: how 
precisely to balance 
the crimson ( serviette 
& egg-white (gloves 
nesting at her fugitive 
knees; Sally 
is about to be 
54 
engaged. Sam (her Yank) 
does his best 
not to look at me. 
"yeah 
though I walk 
through the valley" 
Late, 
so very late, 
it's early morning .. . 
old moon 
cambric 
corset 
wholly 
chortling my cigar's 
stubbed star-unlaced 
& fluttering 
eye-let, 
& pantaloons-
I give myself 
to the horizon. 
Penumbra legs 
on the ship's 
rail: 'Tm free:' 
Tomorrow, 
my glass eye-
open as 
sunlit water 
55 
shot 
through 
a telescope, I'll meet 
Sam's eye, 
Refusing 
to look down. 
Water-silk. 
Damascus steel. 
Foulard mandarin collar. 
Refusing 
56 
to be the one 
explored. 


Ocean Voyager

León, Raina J

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 08 Article 30 
2008 
Philomela Teaches a Child to Sew 
Raina J. León 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
León, Raina J. (2008) "Philomela Teaches a Child to Sew," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 08, 
Article 30. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol08/iss2008/30 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Raina J. Leon 
PHILOMELA TEACHES A CHILD TO SEW 
Our fingers butterfly through window bars to winged testaments 
What rough wounds we carry, 
their scars, are meant to be cleansed. 
Allow the clanging tune of your own blood to slip 
from your ears as a stream. 
You are a nightingale's water, meant to cleanse. 
His sin can not taint for ever. These two white cloths parallel 
your body, and the needle, 
how he marred. To sew is meant to cleanse. 
After he poisoned me with his sex, he cut my tongue from the root, 
watched it flop on the floor. An unstringed 
guitar is still meant to cleanse. 
He silenced you with threat, with the perversion of love's touch. 
I am as wide and seeing as the night, he said. 
You are the star, meant to cleanse. 
We will braid hair and sunlight into this colored thread, 
make a woman's robe of twisted beauty, 
a woolen memoir, meant to cleanse. 
A single strand can be alchemy, transmute 
venom intentions, into elusive liberty. 
Muted queen and child, we are more than 
shards; we are meant to cleanse. 
65 


Philomela Teaches a Child to Sew

Marin, Natasha

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 08 Article 32 
2008 
Morphos 
Natasha Marin 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Marin, Natasha (2008) "Morphos," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 08, Article 32. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol08/iss2008/32 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Natasha Marin 
MORPHOS 
the artist 
I cannot close my eyes. 
There are butterflies here 
that bend indigo and green in the sun. 
The natives call them something 
metallic-an iridescent decoy. 
I've seen them lured into clearings 
and caught with bowls of fruit wine. 
Hands clap them fluttering from the air 
drunk with the promise of pollen. 
Precision scrapes lamellae 
like gold leaf from each tiny frame. 
Like her they cannot fly-unadorned. 
69 


Morphos

Smith, Patricia

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 08 Article 39 
2008 
An All-Purpose Product 
Patricia Smith 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Smith, Patricia (2008) "An All-Purpose Product," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 08, Article 39. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol08/iss2008/39 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
Patricia Smith 
AN ALL-PURPOSE PRODUCT 
What surfaces can I use this product on? 
Answer: Lysol may be used on hard, nonporous surfaces throughout 
your home. Lysol cleans, disinfects and deodorizes regular and on-wax 
floors, non-wood cabinets, sinks and garbage pails. For painted surfaces, 
it is recommended that the product first be tested in a small inconspicu-
ous area. 
Can Lysol be used in the kitchen? 
Answer: Lysol may be used on countertops, refrigerators, non-wood 
cabinets, sinks, stovetops, and microwave ovens. For the bathroom, it 
may be used for tiles, tubs, sinks and porcelain. And for all around the 
house, it may be used on floors, garbage cans, in the basement, and in 
the garage. 
Can I use this inside my refrigerator? 
Lysol may be used on the inside on a refrigerator. However, you must 
remove all food, and rinse well after using the product. 
Can I use this to kill mold and mildew? 
Yes. Lysol controls the growth of mold and mildew. It kills the mold, but 
removal of the stain associated with mold and mildew can sometimes be 
tough. 
Can I use this to scrub the uncontrollable black from the surface of my 
daughter, to make her less Negro and somehow less embarrassing to me? 
She's like the hour after midnight, that chile is. 
78 
Why, yes. Begin with one Sears gray swirled dinette set chair, screeching 
across the hardwood on spindly steel legs. Place the off ending child on 
the ruptured plastic of the seat. Demand that she bend her neck to grant 
you access to the damaged area. You know, of course, that black begins at 
the back of the neck. Grab a kitchen towel, a washcloth or a sponge, and 
soak with undiluted Lysol concentrate. 
Ignoring the howls of the impossibly Negro child, scrub vigorously until 
the offending black surrenders. There may be inflammation, a painful 
rebellion of skin, slight bleeding. This is simply the first step to righ-
teousness. The child must be punished for her lack of silky tresses, her 
broad sinful nose, that dark Negroid blanket she wears. Layers of her 
must disappear. 
PRECAUTIONARY STATEMENTS. DANGER: CORROSIVE TO 
EYES AND SKIN. HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED. Causes eye and skin 
damage. Do not get in eyes or on skin. Wear protective eyewear and 
rubber gloves when handling. 
Woman, your mission, however, is beyond this. You must clean the child, 
burn the southern sun from her. If she squirms from the hurting of this, 
demand that she hold on to the sides of the chair. Soak towel or sponge 
with our patented holy water. Repeat application. 
I have tried to understand PRECAUTIONARY STATEMENTS my 
mother DANGER: her hatred of this CORROSIVE TO EYES AND 
SKIN of the me that wears this HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED the 
monster she had CAUSES EYE AND SKIN DAMAGE the monster she 
wanted DO NOT GET IN EYES OR ON SKIN 
Mama, can't you read it? You want me to read it to you? I can't help 
being my color! I am black, I am not dirty. I am black, I am not dirty, 
79 
I am black, I am. Not. Dirty. What you have birthed upon me will not 
come off. My hair is black crinkled steel, too short to stay plaited. My 
ass is wide and will get wider. You can pinch my nose, but it will remain 
a landscape. You cannot reverse me. What is filthy to you will never be 
cleansed. There is only one thing you can 
CHANGE 
I am not dirty, I am black. I am not dirty, I am black, I am not black, I 
am dirty. I am dirty black, not black. I am black and dirty. Dirt is black. 
Black is dirty. You convinced me that I am what is wrong in this world. 
Scrub me right. 
Bleed me lighter. 
What is the difference between disinfection and sanitization? Why are there 
two different usage directions for each? 
Answer: According to the Environmental Protection Agency, "disinfec-
tion" is killing more than 99.99% of germs on hard, nonporous surfaces 
in 10 minutes, and may pertain to a number of different types of bacte-
ria, viruses and fungi. The EPA defines "sanitization" as killing 99.9% of 
bacteria in five minutes or less. 
Lysol products achieve sanitization in 30 seconds. 
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2. 
1. 
Done. 
81 


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