EVICTION by Michelle Clinton.

White men handed papers to my mother
through a cracked door. We had to
get boxes from the liquor store
& watch her get drunk.

Before, just yesterday, my mother
brought home purple heart doilies
& gave us large silver coins
we held tight in our hands
running to catch ice cream bells.

Yesterday she baked macaroons,
she talked to her plants & scrubbed
even the air with her sure, careful
movements. Now she sits, She stares;
she drinks.

And after our disassembled home,
rum, gin, & vodka boxes are carried
on the backs of large & small men
swarming about my mothers drunken
laughter.

After the doilies have been gathered,
the plants limp with root shock
are placed on the orange U-Haul,

We will jump on beds &
throw kung fu kicks at the walls,
We will break windows & shriek
as they shatter, for the unyielding blue eyes,
the unknown, untouchable Authority
that disrupted
this, the peace
of my mother’s home…