Once upon a time, we were a family,
good blacks on the block
in Melrose, blurred white of Boston.
The sky was big then,
swirling ivory and cerulean
and I was 12 in a three-storied house,
with a large backyard sitting in a hill.
Three cement and pale blue steps
welcomed you to our porch
and white screen door.

We were family
jammed wall to wall,
cousins running, Aunts talking
about men they hated
Uncles bragging about women
they jaded. Barbecue smoking
music, nose to nose.

I was in my own world
pasted to a black & white TV,
tight cut-off jeans, round belly,
watching my Uncle crank that machine,
twisting salt, ice, milk, vanilla, cream
sugar, butter, chocolate, nuts
sometimes raisins. It was sweet
and cold and sliding
right to my stomach.

Mouths yelled with laughter
and beer yeasted tongues.
Aretha, Marvin, Teddy,
Curtis, Gladys, and Millie
shifting our …