Christine Stoddard | forthesonorous

Dirty, Dusty Beans

You scraped the beans off the floor

and said, “Don’t be so clumsy.”

Because our fridge was empty,

our EBT card was empty,

our stomachs were empty.

“We can’t afford to

feed the roaches.”

So I ate that spoonful

of dirty dusty beans.

Then I headed to St. James

for a sack of cans:

canned herring,

canned liver,

canned beets,

canned bread,

canned okra—

all foods designed for the poor.

But I didn’t head straight home.

I headed to the club

and signed up

for an audition.

“Do you need a resume?”

I asked.

The manager laughed,

Flashing her gold teeth.

“What? You got a PhD?”

“Actually, I do.”

She froze.

“This pays more

than adjuncting,” I said.

She nodded.

“As long as you can dance.”

I can dance as long

as it means no more

dirty, dusty beans.

“Yeah, I can dance.”

And I flexed my calves.

A Recipe for Speculators

1. Buy a house

in a neighborhood with no trees

or streetlamps

or hope

or prosperity

because the city has forgotten

its people

and their dreams

at least these people

at least these dreams

2. Renovate the house

beyond recognition

remove all of its character

for a uniform catalog look

that could pass for anywhere

3. Flip the house

by luring yuppies

to a branded “new frontier”

because they want to be pioneers

4. Repeat

until your city could be any city

in America

Bushwick

Gentrification is not a glamorous word

but it’s what happened

or did you think this all came

guilt-free?

This kitchen did not have

a granite island before.

The coffee shop on

the corner is new.

The skinny jean boutique

came with them—

them being me.

I am a gentrifier

and I carry that guilt

in my bones,

but I will not move.

My college degree

means I’m educated,

not rich.

I never asked to be a pioneer.

I would never call myself a pioneer.

I am not here to uproot the delis

or the churches

or the liquor stores.

Stay planted on this earth

where you belong.

Give me empty warehouses,

give me abandoned storefronts,

but I am not here

to invade the spaces

neighborhood mainstays

and ancestors inhabit.

Join me, neighbors, in watching

the sunset melt into row houses.

I know you saw the red sun here first,

but can we face the sky together?

Christine Stoddard is a Salvadoran-Scottish-American writer and artist who lives in Brooklyn. In addition to being the founding editor of Quail Bell Magazine, she is the author of Hispanic & Latino Heritage in Virginia (The History Press), Ova (Dancing Girl Press, 2017), and two miniature books from the Poems-For-All series. Her work has appeared in anthologies by Candlewick Press, Civil Coping Mechanisms, ELJ Publications, and other publishers.