Honeysuckle and High Water
by
Destiny Crockett
After Dylan Thomas, I fear
The artist hears another woman blame her
grandmother for dying. The artist hears the woman
say “I would never let that happen to me” about her
forebear’s death. The artist becomes onyx and self-
righteousness. The artist keeps her mouth shut but
thinks granddaughters do not have license to blame
their grandmothers for their own deaths. The artist
remembers her own great grandmother. The artist
remembers the four generations of women who
raised her, who were leery always of smiling faces
and accompanying disregard. The artist ruminates
on blame and poverty and old Black women who
want to love and die on their own terms. The artist
does not want to write after a white man any more
than her own great grandmother wanted to listen to
one.
Do not moderate the spoken memory of their dead,
Hydrangea of hubris: I would never let that happen to me
Rage, rage against the haughty of dispread.
Sage daughters don’t call their grandmother’s refuge mislead,
Privilege of judgment: whisper I would never say that about mine. She
Raised six kids, dressed well, hair greased, bellies fed.
My great knew she was fragile, hale on her deathbed
The honeysuckle and the high-water one-stepped under a hemlock tree
Raged, raged, against white doctors highfalutin around her head
I would never slough off her uncivil dubiety and fight
In seventy-nine years, what did she see? Sitting in my rememory
Went willful, on her terms into mitigating night.
The uppity urge to render old Black woman form as unwise sight
Cauled eyes roll, refusing sterile disregard: sensory
Rage, rage against her freer brood’s own slight.
And you, her grandchild,
Curse, bless her now with your fierce tears.
Do not go gentle into their good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.