For my first LOVE blog post, I wanted to share with you a poem* I wrote in honor of my co-author and mother, Alice Randall, set in our favorite room of our house!
The kitchen door, charred black from where it must be kicked in the bottom left-hand corner in order to align the lock and twist it open, has an upper half of warped pane glass. On a Saturday morning the light tends to shine in at an angle toward the island. The expressive curve of Alice’s bottom punctuates the scene most mornings, and the light streaming as it does makes a vamp of the deer-white nightgown—she could be naked, such is the view. She defies nature. The excess of her flesh, though made lumpen in its quantity, sits, bottom-like, high above the thighs. There in the kitchen, a shelf, a reason never to diet, a revelation of heft—inspires fear, joy, hope, a looking to the future! Black women get married, have sex, are loved, in spite of cruel genes, threatening ever, to make a thousand Mammies out of a thousand breasty, hippy girls. There is no double consciousness in this house, with its beaten door and its streaming glass. Its sweated tiles and refrigerator.
* “Kitchen Door” first appeared in the Fall 2012 Issue of the Massachusetts Review.