Jason Reynolds

and so when you were posed, 
inched into the center of the frame 
like a heavy sculpture, woman 
chiseled from workday, 
and when the question came of 
whether or not you could turn 
the broom upside-down, the detritus 
of a good guh’ment job dancing 
on the straw head, and when 
the mop was placed behind you looking

on like a jealous white girl, 
backdrop blurred, bars of american rag, 
stitched-on star-shaped peepholes, light 
shining in from some future 
where my grandma would beg 
for the same job not too far from you 
so she wouldn’t have to keep going 
all the way to silver spring to put 
elbow grease to miss barbara’s baseboards, 
did you think,

who is this little man with this camera 
telling me to stand, telling me to smile 
or not smile, telling me to act normal
and poised? don’t he know you can’t 
raise five kids without poise? that’s my normal.
don’t he know I got five kids to raise 
and they won’t want to hear nothing 
about no modeling or even care or question 
why someone would want to make art of char? 
don’t he know I got a job to do?

and on the off chance you were not posed, 
on the off chance he came into the building, 
body and lens swinging from his neck 
after the suits and hard shoes had made their way 
back to their families for roast chicken 
and small talk about FDR, and spotted you, 
alone and perfect at the top of the steps, 
tell me, please tell me, he found you 
with that broom off the floor, 
beating beating beating dust out the flag.

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