I went to my uncle’s funeral

for unselfish reasons.

I wore my brand new, black silk dress,

and braved high heels and sheer pantyhose

as I minced from the car to the funeral home

thinking that the rain was appropriate

for the mood

yet unfortunate for my new, silk dress.

Sitting in the pew

flanked by no-name cousins

I thought about the beauty of

brown skin against black cloth

because I’ve never touched a dead person

and the sound of my uncle’s voice

was still chuckling Hey Shel, how ya doin?

in my head.

My denial was interrupted

by the presence of my grandmother,

my uncle’s mother,

and her ankles shaking in the echo of her voice

wailing like a woman giving birth

her body splitting open

and her mind still trying to comprehend

the expected, familiar pain.

As I sat tucked between the pew

and my grandmother’s shoulder

like a child frightened by my own ignorance

half-listening to her mumbling to me

and still watching her ankles, so stiff now,

I decided

that I was never bearing children

for selfish reasons.