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Eviction Day

By Rochelle Robinson-Dukes
The day after the science fair I released the fruit flies
that lived in the clear cell that proved one could be
conditioned to self-restriction.  It took me tipping
the mayonnaise jar sideways and blowing air
inside for them to finally fly out; these flies huddled
in fear like a five-member family, hiding
in its two-bed room apartments
with marshals pounding homelessness
into their present; this day was nothing like an exodus
from Alcatraz or the Woodlawn Plantation. It was
not like you the day after your starvation diet,
gobbling down crisps and cookies like a human
lawnmower; you no longer hid behind the fat that
protected you from rape; you shed skin; head poked out
like a turtle, hoping you didn’t need or miss
your mushy, heavy shell.


Gender rising

By Rochelle Robinson-Dukes
Stoned like uncovered woman
in biblical or Puritan times. She is
like a half-moon, the curtain pulls back;
knees stand center stage for inspection—
someone’s recreation in Tony’s Bodega,
outside Juan’s Taco Truck,
on the # 6 bus in Hyde Park or downtown,
any corner. Eyes are posted everywhere.
Mother becomes MILF; MILF becomes “hottie”
daughter is “sweet thang”; grandmother without gray
hair evolves into “good old ass.”
Monikers of femininity cause saliva spigots,
Tom and Jerry cartoon-style.
Slick tongues offer more
as they pantomime—intimidation
on ice cream; sprinkles of butt slaps,
wrapped in a too-close hugs from a professor,
an uncle, the darkness figures outside.
Sweetie, come collect your random rape.
Hey, girl, I got a deal for you,
a quid quo quickie for some
pro promotion quickly.
They itemized like a grocery list
of body parts:  teats, ass, legs, hips
which are collected like plastic pieces
from the patient in the Operation board game or
property in Monopoly. Women are liked
too many times by unwanted people.
Others’ commodities in female bodies are consumed
like ham hocks smothered in greens;
her sweet potato pie jig sawed into triangles,
little tan slices the world gobbles
in advertisements showing a woman licking
a snow cone, biting soft candy.
She becomes her own bars, contained
from advancement, recognition, self-actualization.
She awaits a full-moon to harvest new names;
wearing corporate clothes in linen or tweed
won’t de-gender this citizen who goes undocumented
in castles built from the bones of women like her, valued
stones unturned. Hopscotched over for an uninformed man.


Crazy things people do during a pandemic

By Rochelle Robinson-Dukes
Start fights over toilet paper.
Break shelter in place to
Shoplift vegetables from a bodega.
That shouldn’t be open. Anyway. 
You beat your wife.
Kick the cat. Punch a wall
for getting in the way
as you stagger to the basement.
Storage, really.  A pool table.
Brown leather chair, soft with cat pee.
The beer fridge and red cups. 
You grab a bottle and leaf through
a photo album of dead folks
who were in important in your youth. 
Father on a tractor. Hair flaxen like the corn
on both sides of him. Gaze fixed into the distance.
Beyond the camera. Like the Marlboro man on
an I-94 billboard. No one could tell
he was worried. Depression shook him. 
Tilted farming’s landscape.
His mistress was pregnant with you.
Hidden in a cabin on the other side of town. 
You see your brow in his face.
You wonder who took this picture.
His wife who met you at his funeral?
You remember the looks your half-siblings
gave you and your Latina wife.
More half-breed children.
They don’t deserve this reminder.
Daddy was crazy
way before the virus hit the states. 


Staring at a bowl of mashed sweet potato at Easter

By Rochelle Robinson-Dukes
Looking at this rough gourd,
an orange knot—
 
like a jack-o-lantern
three weeks later on a porch.
 
I must scrape the extra goop
that stains the stairs
 
or like my cousin Peaches taken
during the Atlanta child murders
 
a burnt orange body—insides
sizzling on a clandestine country road.
 
Stuffed into a green bag,
she left the woods shoeless;
 
now, her old head scarf sits atop
the pumpkin’s head.
 
she has no need for it—her
head is empty; my plate sits full;
 
this dish can sustain me,
tasty, yet bittersweet.


For the past twenty-four years, Rochelle Robinson-Dukes has been an Associate English Professor at the City Colleges of Chicago. She teaches all levels of literature and composition courses. 
 
She has been published in African-American Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Ravens perch and the anthology In Other Words. She has poems forthcoming in Rock & Sling and Poetry Hall Bilingual Journal.

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