My aunts washed dishes while the uncles
squirted each other on the lawn with
garden hoses. Why are we in here,
I said, and they are out there.
That’s the way it is,
said Aunt Hetty, the shrivelled-up one.
I have the rages that small animals have,
being small, being animal.
Written on me was a message,
“At Your Service,” like a book of
paper matches. One by one we were
We come bearing supper,
our heads on fire.
— Paulette Jiles