This could be titled: An Ode to Home. Or. Park Hill Stand Up. Or. Park Hill in Four Remembrances. Or. Hillside Stargazer. Or. Home is Where the Bodies Are Buried. By Dominique Christina You couldn’t get anywhere in Park Hill Without walking by Granny Phifer’s house. A coral, peeling, weathered flat that looked Like dessert cake with white frosted awnings Sugared in decay and the crabapple trees that spilled Their fat, bitter bulbs on the lawn that she Religiously watered, once in the morning, Again at dusk- Shuffling out the house in pink sponge rollers and Corduroy house shoes made for a man with the heel Pressed down and flat, Still, she was white-lace glove dainty Sit up straight and Yes ma’am delicious. If you wanted to go to the playground in my neighborhood You had to go by Binky and Bunky’s house. A red brick ranch style home that Kept its secrets pushed behind painted and repainted White screen door with the inevitable beehive Stuck just above it. Everything about that house had a sting. But all fried, everything All the time, everything. Oxtails, chicken legs, and collard greens Peppered and salted just right til your Lips smacked wetly when you walked by Except- You never just walked by— You stopped in, Left your shoes by the door, Listened for the rumble, Said yes please to sweet potato pie And maybe got your hair braided If Miss Susie felt like climbing in To tackle the bramble and quiet Your brushfire locks. If you wanted to get to the corner store You had to go by Richard’s house. A boy with no conscience. And no plans of growing into one. His mama was a Sunday school teacher…you know… For the irony. He didn’t have a daddy. All the worst boys in Park Hill Didn’t seem to have daddies Just dirty words and grasping hands. If you wanted to get anywhere In my neighborhood on Saturday Morning you had to hide (From Jehovah Witnesses) Because they were coming early. Real early. Very early. Too damn early in the morning. Pamphlet-heavy chics dressed in pastels Peddling redemption with no Real roadmap cuz it meant I wasn’t gonna get to cuss the way I needed to So I did what I’d seen everyone on the block do I hid behind the curtains and waited for them to leave. I watched ‘em go over to the next House and not get in there either. They never did seem to get in and Maybe that’s why it took God so long to find me Cuz I was ducking out and hiding from everything Including myself but it took me years to learn that. If you wanted to have your first kiss In my neighborhood you did so… Willfully. In the alley behind that nasty girl’s house whose Mama chain-smoked Camels and was never home To catch her kids doing anything. You leaned into your galloping want And waited for a messy exchange That sent saliva down your jawbone— But you wore eyeliner after that. Thought you knew what a woman was, Thought you knew you wanted to be one. Back alleys are not the right places For this kind of clarity. But you held onto it. Because that’s what you do. When there’s nowhere else to go, When there’s nothing else to hold, When the place you are is the Only thing telling you what You will become, You hold into it. You hold onto it and call it “Home.”
This is lovely. I grew up in Park Hill in the 70’s. The poem evokes so many memories for me. Oh my, the alleys, houses with mysterious old women - some bright and some dark memories. Thank you.