Holly Bass   A GOOD SHOWING This wasn't no wear all black funeral. Uncle Al showed up in a royal blue suit with matching royal blue, pointed tow, snakeskin Stacy Adams. Cousin William wore royal, too. But with blue-and-white wingtips and a bit more gold around his neck. Most of the men were content to wear traditional blacks and blues, leaving color to the women. Mama wore her Christmas suit, the color of lemon creme, once assured by her sisters that no one would remember it from the holiday four months earlier. I wore a houndstooth suit, and over that a Persian lamb mink collar coat Aunt Jean had found for me at the Goodwill. Mama did my makeup and said I looked like a movie star. We all looked good--filling up the pews of the church. Mama was glad a lot of people showed up to grandma's funeral. Lena Pearl Hollins wasn't one for making friends too kindly, or for keeping them close, either. But that day everyone made a good showing. The sun did not shine, but at least it did not rain. I didn't cry but once, when cousin Jamil sang, "Goin' up Yonder," his fourteen- year-old falsetto sounding angel pure and sweet. And then I felt my heart fall softly when the funeral home man pulled the light blue shroud off the sky grey casket, folded it quick and neat, and placed it over grandma's white-gloved hands. He closed the heavy lid. You almost could not hear the click.     PENNYEATER "Dinah," automatic bank. Made in England, 1885, registered number, no reproductions. $450.00. (Lists at $575.00) I am luscious with my mouth open big, the red of my tongue, the deep red of my lips a palette of crushed berry, fresh blood, so complementary. My yellow dress is always in fashion, cut off just at the breasts, modestly sized and round. The black whorls of my hair coiffured in the manner of a very fine lady, circa 1885. I am the very picture of elegance A rich black woman I keep my money stashed in my bosom, my hand is always ready to gobble down a copper penny Would you like to see my eyes do a dance? roll and roll, a good jellyroll Give me a copper penny And I'll dance and I'll dance, oh how I'll roll my pretty brown eyes     TOUCHING GAME our smooth flat chests covered in cotton nightgowns two girls in bed together kissing cousins, is what they say but when I pulled her younger hand close to my vagina her fingers resisted, curled into unwilling stone I try another tactic touch hers, hoping she'll get what the game's about but she remains stiff little girl doesn't want to play gonna go and tell her mama and make me feel ashamed will I have to tell my secrets how I touch another girl and all the other boys and girls the sleepovers and barbecues, any excuse, group games--family doctor, ten seconds in the closet a chance to rub my reedy, unbreasted body against her peach pit breasts caressing the hairless slit with saliva slicked fingers big fun on a Saturday playing little girl games       SOCIOLOGY We roll up in the Camry an occupational mission South Capitol Beauty Academy the sign barely visible from the street like early century socialworkers a well-paid consultant and her intern driving deep into the hood to tell the sistas how to keep from getting HIV We bring condoms and posters with catchy slogans the beauty school is not glamorous or chic We would never get our hair done here The only things that shine here smiling pots of grease, the students' lacquered nails burning dreams of glass-framed licenses-- the real reason they're here-- they already know how to do hair Back of the school, past the rows of washsinks, beehives of hairdryers scattered tables where students and teachers eat marble checkerboard on one Gary, the second in command, offers to play me while we wait for the Big Man in the office to finish his phone call I'm no checkers player, haven't played in years defeat is imminent and more important I've got ten more sites to visit after this Still I pull up a chair while my intern watches We go over rules, how far kings can jump backwards moves allowed and who will start Minutes later I'm eight men down and his king is in my territory Just in time, the owner's office door opens He calls us inside. I see a piece of fried chicken on the desk's edge I see the nub of what was his left hand covered in an athletic sock held on by a gold watch I see papers strewn about, signs of a busy man signs of a disorganized man. Just before we leave I see the fry daddy filled with oil, a container of spice-red flour This man fries his own chicken in his office I glance at my intern, our eyes shutter and click taking everything in. The owner compliments us the way older black men do when they meet smart, pretty black girls who've finished college Says we look too young to be out of school and working We smile and I see all my cousins, uncles and nephews every black stranger who's ever said a kind word when our paths cross on the street. BETTER ROSES Georgia, August 1999 Driving back from Albany, I tell my father that I'd like a piece of cotton to take back with me. We stop along the road. My father has told me how he used to pick cotton every day after school during harvest. Five-and-a-half cents per pound. The most he ever picked in one day was 217 pounds. Forty years later, he still remembers this number. Still remembers the excitement of having seven hard-earned dollars in his hand. I open my car door. I'll get it, Daddy says. Whatchu want? Just a cotton boll? He looks across the field for signs of a shotgun-toting, overzealous farmer guarding his crop. No one in sight. He wades through high grass in dress slacks and good shoes. I pray the ground is dry. He pulls off three nice bolls. From where I am, it looks like he is picking small, white roses for me. He returns to the car and places them in my hands. I examine these strange flowers, turning them by the stem. The papery leaves crumble as I touch them. The hard hull, pointed enough to draw blood, dark as my own skin.     Holly Bass is a poet, writer, and performer. Her poems have been published in Callaloo, Cave Canem 2000 Anthology and Black Prison Writings. She presented readings of her solo performance pieces "Black Like Coffee" and "Diary of a Baby Diva" to full houses at Arena Stage and Woolly Mammoth Theater in Washington, DC. She has written for the Wall Street Journal, The Washington City Paper, and American Theater Magazine. In addition to freelance writing, she teaches creative writing in DC-area public schools and is a member of the Carla and Co. dance troupe. She recently completed a fellowship with the National Arts Journalism Program at Columbia University. She has performed her poetry at numerous universities and art centers, including the Kennedy Center, the Whitney Museum, and the Apollo Theater. She was awarded two Artist Fellowship grants from the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. She holds a BA from Sarah Lawrence College and a Master's in Journalism from Columbia University. Published in Volume 3, Number 2, Spring 2002.   To read more by this author: Holly Bass: Audio Issue Holly Bass: It's Your Mug Anniversary Issue (introduction), Vol. 10:3, Summer 2009 Holly Bass: It's Your Mug Anniversary Issue (poems) Holly Bass: Langston Hughes Tribute Issue