and sugar; she takes it black.

She scans her wardrobe

for a dress. They respond to emails

and tidy their desks. At 4 am,

the garbage truck jostles her awake. He sleeps best

on his side, on his back,

on his belly. He calls her lady. Though before she’d wince

at this term of endearment, she hears the word babe

slip out of her.

It slips out of her mouth … His eyes

are tired. She has bags under her eyes. She waters

the cactus in a slip. The sky

turns stormy. He forgets the umbrella. She wants

to storm out. He believes she’ll leave. He forgets

to call. She calls him a name. She takes it

back … He takes it black, no

sugar. He’s confused. He wants a baby. She

winces. They rub their eyes. It was a slip. A mistake.

He packs his bags. She irons the sky-blue

dress. She can’t stand his silences. The way he slips

in and out of her. The phone was on silent.

The ringer was off. She removes the ring

from the tub … He sleeps

on the couch, on his side. The sky

is a bath of coff e grounds. Her face is full

of clouds. His eye waters. Somewhere

near a marsh there’s a starling roosting.

I’m saying the middle

was filled with the end.

Labor

Manhattan, New York

The Upper West Side brims

with Black women heaving Bugaboo

strollers as if maneuvering horseless plows.

I’m walking up Broadway with a white friend

whose mother’s food stamps we used

as kids to buy Sour Straws, barbecue

chips, and frosted pints of Cherry Garcia.

While we zigzag between pedestrians,

she argues that there may be as many

white, working-class nannies steering

double-wide strollers as Black.

It’s hard to tell, she insists,

whether the white women caring

for white babies are laborers

or mothers. I know we use

the same word to describe work

and the work of giving birth.

Still, I’m tempted to call her bluff.

Today, I do not want children.

I recall instances when I’ve been mistaken

for mother. Like last May, when a man

clutching a fistful of blush roses

wished me Happy Mother’s Day.

Or in a muggy subway car,

as the child beside me rested his head

on my arm. A nearby passenger’s eyes

softened at our portrait.

I claimed the sleeping child then,

briefly, I claimed him.

More than once, I’ve held tightly

the hands of my twin nephews,

who could be confused

for each other—or as mine.

Together, we’ve waited near

the chasm of the street—gust of cars

stealing their reflections. I’ve spent hours,

brief minutes, tending to children

I in no way labored for—and then,

with some relief, I have let them go.

Poem After Betye Saar’s The Liberation of Aunt Jemima

What if, Betye, instead of a rifle or hand