Mustards
by Danez Smith
you can buy them by the bag now
machine cut, washed and ready
but like she did with her daughters
grandma sat me down, bowl at our feet
filled with the backyard’s dark cash
not so small, nezzy so i tear
the bills a little bigger. between
greens i get a story or two
trade promises of good grades
for little withdrawals from her
war chest, stingy with memory.
i didn’t know how rich i was, a child
flush with elders, all those years
watching over me, wiping
the crust from my face. so ill
the flip. now, i wipe her mouth, fix
her food, make her plate, worry
her health, make sure she eats
her greens. her hands – hands
that kept us world-tethered,
body-bound – are smaller now,
candy canes and skin,
delicate as bubbles, the blue veins
more visible by the day, rivers
gaining strength. so fragile
you could pull her apart
with a child’s hands. so fragile
you could confetti her, pile her
in a pot. those hands, brown as pennies
brittle as November, braised by time,
couldn’t rip apart a petal now,
but they were good to me
and kept me alive. she’s dying.
it’s too true now to keep
not saying it. heaven
is pregnant with her. pound
by lost pound her body
gathers itself again where God is.
our turn then to help the bitter leaf
go down. to feed her as she becomes
what she only dreams. dirt. hands
the blessed hue of dirt. blue. the blue
torrent of the veins under
the organza skin. green.
the green stain of my cheap gold.
and a little greens on the fork.
i raise a little earth
to the mouth of my world.
machine cut, washed and ready
but like she did with her daughters
grandma sat me down, bowl at our feet
filled with the backyard’s dark cash
not so small, nezzy so i tear
the bills a little bigger. between
greens i get a story or two
trade promises of good grades
for little withdrawals from her
war chest, stingy with memory.
i didn’t know how rich i was, a child
flush with elders, all those years
watching over me, wiping
the crust from my face. so ill
the flip. now, i wipe her mouth, fix
her food, make her plate, worry
her health, make sure she eats
her greens. her hands – hands
that kept us world-tethered,
body-bound – are smaller now,
candy canes and skin,
delicate as bubbles, the blue veins
more visible by the day, rivers
gaining strength. so fragile
you could pull her apart
with a child’s hands. so fragile
you could confetti her, pile her
in a pot. those hands, brown as pennies
brittle as November, braised by time,
couldn’t rip apart a petal now,
but they were good to me
and kept me alive. she’s dying.
it’s too true now to keep
not saying it. heaven
is pregnant with her. pound
by lost pound her body
gathers itself again where God is.
our turn then to help the bitter leaf
go down. to feed her as she becomes
what she only dreams. dirt. hands
the blessed hue of dirt. blue. the blue
torrent of the veins under
the organza skin. green.
the green stain of my cheap gold.
and a little greens on the fork.
i raise a little earth
to the mouth of my world.
Danez Smith is the author of four collections including Don’t Call Us Dead, Homie, and most recently Bluff, a finalist for the 2025 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry. They are also the curator of Blues In Stereo: The Early Works of Langston Hughes. For their work, Danez won the Forward Prize for Best Collection, the Minnesota Book Award in Poetry (twice), a Lambda Literary Award, a Pushcart Prize and has been a finalist for the NAACP Image Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the National Book Award. Their prose has been featured in The New Yorker, GQ, Harper’s Bazaar, and elsewhere. Danez lives in the Twin Cities with their people.