Grownfolk Talk
I studied the history, know the lore, can recite the year
credited with The Family Fissure, the events of which
began before I came to crawl, running quickly after & into
what runs through my pre-problematic blood. I can speak
to strange pain in my side some mornings, to overstretching
& upsetting my shoulder, to relief at T-Jeanie’s divorce, though
this talk has an unpleasant taste.
we mark time by financial considerations. tax season, open
enrollment. our only breaks are mental, fine, we are resisting
resisting. we smile about sales on detergent & linens, & our
grandparents won’t tell us what happened to them. we are often
considering something. going back to school, skipping town,
breaking from bread from liquor from sugar. we are lonely
& lacking practical advice, we are tired & only have platitudes
to give. it has to get better, yes it must, though if it doesn’t…
this talk has an unpleasant taste.
yesterday we said can’t complain, then we did, lamented
something kids today do or don’t. answered what’s for lunch
or dinner with the usual. we worried about being wrong
about something. we found something wrong with ourselves,
we lied, we said we didn’t play pretend, yet we spoke through
the swell of our bitten tongues, searched each other’s faces. oh,
this talk has an unpleasant taste.
You is a child again
every holiday. Your feet kick under the dish-crowded table.
You pretends not to notice Your parents are missing,
at least one to some back room, yet You doesn’t need them
there to cower under their demands—eat nothing
& say less. You keeps a neutral expression, engaging when
engaged. The macaroni is blackening at it’s corners,
is crusted well, yet You asks someone else if they think it’s
ready. You dances at the burnt edges of every family
photo. at least a limb in each tableau, there if someone wants
You there, unable to flash a ring or a beau like Your
cousins. them, perfect in the eyes of gods & grandmothers.
You, the one that there’s always one of. the grownerfolk
are telling You what lasts forever. they speak of the internet,
babies, tattoos. You is looking for something of the sort,
since none of them say us, this, love.
Louisiana-born Jae Nichelle (she/her) is the author of God Themselves (Andrews McMeel, 2023) and the chapbook The Porch (As Sanctuary) (YesYes Books, 2019). She believes in all of our collective ability to contribute to radical change. Photo by Christopher Diaz.
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