as they sit down to food predictable as ritual.

    Pink lady peas， tomatoes red as fat hearts

    sliced thin on a plate， cornbread hot， yellow

    clay made edible. The aunts hand the dishes

    and tell of people who've shadowed them， pesky

    terrors， ageing reflections that peer back

    in the glass when they stand to wash up at the sink.

    One sister shivers and fevers with malaria，

    lowland by the river where Papa tries to farm

    the old plantation.  Midnight， she calls to him

    to save her， there's money on fire， money between

    her thighs， money burning her up， she's dying.

    He brings no water but goes on his knees，

    jerks up the bedclothes， shouts something she

    has not said， has she？ Yelling at the invisible man

    he sees under the bed： Come out from there， you

    black rascal， you. Flapping the heavy sheets

    like angel wings， and smiling at his baby daughter

    who in her eighties shuffles her words briskly

    like a deck of playing cards， and laughs and says，

    We're all crazy here， lived around negroes too long.

    The oldest sister walks barefoot home from school

    trembling. At the curve by the Lightsey's house

    a black woman stands， bloody-handed， holding up

    a pale fetus from a slaughtered sow， laughing，

    I've killed me a baby， lookit the baby I killed.

    Beatrice looks past them all， sees the ramshackle houses

    past her grandmother's yard， the porch tin cans of snakeplants.