artwork for Kima Jones' writing

The Dissection
Kima Jones (@sweat_btwn)

Inspired by tweets from July 2012.


More should be written on the anatomy of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The way we like our PBJs probably has a lot to say about us.


I like my PBJ with creamy, salted peanut butter,strawberry preserves, wheat bread with the bread ends removed and cut in half vertically.


WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

It means your mother took the jobs she could and raised the kids she had.
It means when she couldn’t, she didn’t.
It means dinner to children whose last meal was a school lunch.
It means bread stretches the belly.
It means enough for more.
It means sticky fingers lit up like threaded christmas bulbs.
It means bread crust is food don’t waste it.
It means no money to waste.
It means getting a little fruit into the diet
It means not one hunger pang.
It means your mother worked part time.
It means after school, you had kids to watch.
It means homework and hair to braid.
It means clothes that have to be ironed.
It means meet your mother after work
and walk her home
from the hotel
or the butcher
It means a slice down the middle.
It means a sharp fucking knife

slipping into the chest
preserves running from the bread
peanut butter fingerprints
along the plastic bread bag
like raccoon tracks in winter
mouths so sweet they hurt
water or milk
glass after glass
brothers gulp the bread
sisters hiccup in your face
hysterical laughter coming again
and again.


What DOES that mean?? RT @ReeAmilcarScott: @sweat_btwn I hate Peanut Butter. What does that say about me?

It says you will never love me.
It says there is no history between us,
your mother was not like mine,
we have nothing in common,
you leave the protein from the meal.
It says you had the luxury of meat on your plate.
It says you wouldn’t know the wishbone from the herringbone from no bone at all.
It says maybe you had a grandma who cooked sometimes
or leftovers.
It says you had no big sister with homework and hair to braid and a meal to make.
It says I will never love you.
It says don’t ever talk about my mother.
It says don’t judge me.
It says your mama must’ve had some extra.
Did she have a desk job?
Did she finish school?


Your Mama didn't play Teena Marie? Betty Wright? Gladys Knight? Anita Baker? Black Moses? What was your Mama doing?

Did she answer telephones?
Was she a nurse?
Did she teach kids to state tests?
Did she flip patty meat?
Did her face break out all the time?
Did she complain about the grease splashing onto her face?
Did she need to keep her job?
Did she bring bags of extra burgers home?
Did you get tired of cold patty meat?


OH MY GOD

Were you sick of stale fries, chemical scented,
all the salt and heat long gone?
Did your Mama work late because that was the only shift?
Did she come in too tired to shower?
Did she check the caller i.d.?
Did she take off her shoes and have a newport?
Did the smoke barrel through her lungs
or settle in her breasts
1993 before she knew about genetic predispositions and risks
Did she smoke two or three?
Did she fall asleep at the dinner table in her uniform and name tag and visor?
Did she get jelly on her uniform sleeve?
Did she wake you from a safe sleep with a firm hand?
Did she tell you to get your ass out that bed?
Did she tell you to come clean the table?
the jelly and peanut butter and crumbs on her sleeve
talking about work she hated and kids to feed
Did you stumble through the night
slipperless
hands wet
of bleach and dish soap
back to bed
cursing your sleeping mother
all the way?



Kima Jones’ Comments

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 37 | Summer 2012 | The Twitter Issue