Mixer

Another poem for my kiddos regarding racism. It is more serious now, with hormones and awareness surging. 

Mixer


For a wedding present I was given
a KitchenAid mixer,
refrigerator white and solid as a battleship.
It shows the dirt, in its seams
gathers brownie mix, egg and flour.
Seven children have used it.

There is an age they each want to
move the lever controlling the speed,
from one to two to three to four,
a time when four is not fast enough.
They have all asked what happens
if you stick the wooden spoon
in among the spokes of the mixing blade.

My adult life began with
a sewing machine, mixer, baby clothes,
not on street corners in protests,
not on foreign continents like
I thought it might have.
So I brought the world to me,
gathered shelves and shelves of books,
adopted two sons from Ethiopia,
embraced an Ethiopian foster daughter
from a home of slammed doors
and hurting hearts.

These dark skinned three are heckled
on the bus ride home from school,
“Come here little nigga.”
A student who is half black
teases them the most,
reminding us our banished places
wield the sharpest weapons.
My son wants to beat the boy up.
I tell him no, you cannot use
violence to stop violence.
You don’t know how this is, Mom.

I don’t.
I only know not to over mix
the batter for blueberry muffins,
to remember to add leavening.

Long ago I released the luxury
of wishing I was given
the "ice blue" hued KitchenAid,
the color is so pretty,
like the sky in a postcard.