The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Body Not My Own by Tanque R. Jones

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content warning for slavery and racialized language

Rhubarb Pie

4 rhubarb stalks
1 1/3 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups flour
9 spoons butter
a little bit of salt & water

For Master
I bake rhubarb pie every Sunday
after I make the morning meal
and scour dishes and the kitchen.
His white progeny must be cared for—
the girl who calls me nigger to make her mother smile,
Master Jr. and the little one on my hip
who hasn’t learned to look at me without love.

Set aside 6 spoons of flour and a spoon of butter. 
Mix the rest of the flour and butter with a little salt and water. 
Knead till it’s right. 
Divide it. 
Press half into a pan.

Best to sidestep mistress’s ire.
I tidy rooms and scrub floors as she reads in the parlor.
When she paces I withdraw to a corner to mend,
try to rid Master’s cuffs and shoes of droplets.
They’ll never be clean again.

At the sermon tree I gather with the others.
It grows in the direction of the stream,
branches arch toward the water,
self-imposed exile from houses and fields.
The only of its kind
ignorant to the weight of a noose.
Second overseer preaches
the weekly indoctrination with gun and hound.
Bark against my skin,
I watch his words, separate what I know
from what he tells me.

Cut up the rhubarb. Put it in the pan
with the sugar and the rest of the flour and butter.
Make the outside look right.
Bake till it’s done.

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