ROSABELLE

 

Growing up I wanted to be a little black girl

with woven braids sticking out in all directions                

and solid white teeth against luscious chocolate skin.          

I wanted to be the child of Rosabelle,

 

hugged and kissed; soothed by strong Pinesol hands.

Joy to rest my head on her huge behind

while she stood on the soft linoleum washing

my mother’s dishes, humming her gospels.

 

Rosabelle sashayed her massive bulk toward me

her white uniform starched and always clean.

"Ain't nobody as picky about theys food as you child."

To the child I attached a silent my.

 

Weekends she disappeared, returned to her real home,

to her real family I unknowingly robbed,

to some mysterious place in her concealed world.

 

            Rosabelle stopped coming when the buses stopped running.

 

                                                                   Joy G. Friedler