Postcards to a Daughter by Brenda Morisse

Searching for Clues by Sally Arango Renata

                                                            Postcards to a Daughter 

                                                            Postcard #1

                                                            Before you cremate or bury me
                                                            in the low-cut, down to there
                                                            blouse, tickle my nose with a feather
                                                            or barely touch it to my nostril.
                                                            If anyone gives you a hard time,

                                                            Postcard #2

                                                            tell them your mama loved feathers,
                                                            preferred them to flowers. Don’t believe
                                                            the doctors. They make mistakes.
                                                            I don’t trust those doctors. They play golf.
                                                            I’ve loved one doctor,

                                                            Postcard #3

                                                            Dr. Martin Luther King. He was my hero.
                                                            I hope he was dead before they buried him.
                                                            You never know. He was on Hoover’s shit list.
                                                            How many people did Hoover bury alive
                                                            after prancing in red satin

                                                            Postcard #4

                                                            like a half-dead cardinal? I wonder
                                                            if Hoover was dead before they buried him.
                                                            Do you care? I don’t care about a lot
                                                            of people. I never told you about my childhood
                                                            by the river when that old man grabbed me

                                                            Postcard #5

                                                            and touched me and kissed me.
                                                            I was so scared, I didn’t know what to do,
                                                            so I sang. First so low only the frogs
                                                            could hear, then louder and louder.
                                                            The old man was so startled,

                                                            Postcard #6

                                                            he loosened his grip for a moment.
                                                            I wriggled free and ran and ran
                                                            up the river bank singing so loudly
                                                            I couldn’t feel my feet,
                                                            and I forgot my name.

                                                           Brenda Morisse  

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