HELL’S KITCHEN                                                                                       

by Kelly White Arnold


Bitter as burnt biscuits
copperhead kinda mean
mouth drawn in a thin
prim tight line
corners always turned down
nose stuck uppity up like
her shit don’t stink
but yours sure do.

Collectively, we suffer through judgment
served up with Sunday dinner each week;
nestled on the table alongside collard greens cooked with
fatback, fried cornbread and
cucumbers bathed in vinegar, we find
servings of side eye,
dished out when she deems your
behind too fast,
plates of prejudice for anyone who
might not look exactly like her.

As we say grace,
her way is the highway,
her clasped hands
a direct line to white Jesus
Himself, her words, His will.
We bow our heads both
as deference to the good Lord
and a means of avoiding her simmering gaze.

She calls Mama after evening service
on Sundays, cuts her with
words, bile and anger sent
long distance courtesy of Ma Bell.
Mama cries after, closed up tight
in her room, radio on loud
(Guns N Roses, “Sweet Child O’ Mine”),
cigarette smell wafting under the door,
but faithfully drags us all
to dinner after church the next week.

Grandmama, did you ever learn
all the cruelty on God’s green earth won’t
armor you against loss and grief,
won’t shield you from your husband’s
American flag draped coffin
or your daughter’s ashes in a small black box?

Let me leave you this:
you can take all your pain and rage
bake it with buttermilk and
White Lily flour, spread all the
preserves in the larder on top,
serve it on your best china
with a linen napkin and
an ocean of sweet tea
but you still can’t make
me swallow it. 


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Kelly White Arnold is a mom, writer, high school English teacher, and lover of yoga. When she's not scribbling in notebooks or wrangling teenagers, she's planning her next tattoo and daydreaming about traveling the world.