The Listener

for Marilyn King, “Mops” (1949-2009)

A woman in the next aisle

laughs among the milk

and orange juice.  

Laughter stops the words in her throat,

so no matter what, they won’t finish the joke.  

She laughs like my Aunt “Mops,”  

the one who was ready to drive  

from DC to Baltimore to scorch my boss  

with her fire-bottle words  

when I told her what I made as a reporter  

forced to work weekends.   

She got her nickname, “Mops,”  

from the Mopsy biscuits she loved  

as a girl back in Trinidad.  

Every Friday, I’d snatch a stack  

of newspapers from my job and race down  

to her house where the aromas  

of pound cake and curry  

fought each other like siblings.  

I’d drop off a few copies at her salon.  

She’d smile, See how my nephew all ova’  

the front page, so! She’d keep a paper  

to read my articles on city council corruption  

and displaced East Baltimore residents  

before she fell asleep.

If I was stressed from work, she’d always say,  

Them can’t play sailor and ’fraid powder. 

When she died from cancer,  

I thought I lost her forever.   

But she’s an aisle over,  

laughing  

behind the spice shelf.