The Right Way To Speak

The first time my brother says ain’t my mother

pulls a branch from the willow tree growing down

the hill at the edge

of our backyard.

As she slips her closed hand over it,

removes the leaves,

my brother begins to cry

because the branch is a switch now

no longer beautifully weeping at the bottom of the hill.

It whirs as my mother whips it

through the air and down

against my brother’s legs.

You will never, my mother says,

Each switching is a warning to us

our words are to remain

crisp and clear.

We are never to say huh?

ain’t or y’all

git or gonna.

Never ma’am—just yes, with eyes

meeting eyes enough

to show respect.

The word too painful

a memory for my mother

of not-so-long-ago

southern subservient days . . .

The list of what not to say

goes on and on . . .

You are from the North, our mother says.

As the switch raises dark welts on my brother’s legs

Dell and I look on

afraid to open our mouths. Fearing the South

will slip out or

into them.