On the occasion of the family moving out of doors—when
Uncle Bobby and friend came to visit
It was a family meeting under the singing pines in 1972.
The look-alike humans were breathing hard and moving
up the hill to their meeting spot. What would soon be said
would soon be lost to my ears for twenty years but never
leave the hippocampus of my eyes. Playing make-believe
wizard with my stick and watching the grown-ups move
into their heart-to-heart positions. My eyes at sea level
with Uncle Bobby, Black doll maker, who had flown south
from the continent of California, arriving arm in arm with
a shorter man with yellow doll hair. Daddy had banned
the children from what he had come all the way across
the world to tell us. Daddy had banned his new house
from breathing in his brother’s words. The new house
he had just built with three-inch insulation and a two-car
garage was not allowed to grapevine what Uncle Bobby
had come to say. Rule no. 7: Adults eat at one table and
children another until those children leave home and return
for Christmas break, wearing only Texas rattlesnake boots
and writhing Medusa hair, right after the color behind the
ear or beneath the fingernail has finally set into boy-loves-
girl-only, just after the skin underneath the nail has dried
into the permanent tattoo of girl-loves-boy-only. But Daddy
had never separated us like this before. With no man-made
roof to catch and ping-pong our laughter back into the other’s
mouth. We were moved to the out-of-doors. Handed over
and under to pine & wind. I had been sent to a different
room and sat at a different table. I knew the mighty ways
of resistance even then. Cupping my ear to the skin of the
door but I had never been sent outside to a different stand
of trees. This has nothing to do with you. Whatever Uncle
Bobby was about to say was dangerous enough to burn the
whole house down. An embering smell. A peppery taste.
A hot zinging tingle. Metal and match. The woods could
take it. Handle every flying spark. The new house would
never be given the chance. I was not allowed any closer to
Uncle Bobby’s words than the dirt where I stood, a small
square of sand where I kept my head down, drawing two
stick men with eight arms each holding more than each
other. One with doll hair. I knew other men like Uncle
Bobby but they never came in twos. One came with hands
in his pockets and wore sequins on his vest even when it
wasn’t Sunday. He was always at the welcome organ where
his fingers were free to lift & fly. Another came with
sparkling eyes and glitter dusted on his lashes, smiling
at me in the cafeteria while serving me extra cheese
& macaroni, but none ever came like this, arm in arm.
Daddy’s voice climbed then fell, his face looking for me
downwind, making sure I was far enough away from the
words that would soon land on the pines, making them
pop & smoke. The doll man with his play of yellow hair
never stopped smiling. Short & round as a sundial. Their
beards and eyes of different colors. Their three-letter
names moving like a nursery rhyme I was not allowed
to run across my tongue, Bob, Rob, Rob, Bob. I could
see Daddy’s eyes hunting me through the pines. This
can’t have anything to do with you.
Copyright © 2020 by Nikky Finney. Published 2020 by TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Sarah Hussein