Ellen June Wright

Ellen June Wright was born in England of West Indian parents and immigrated to the United States as a child. She taught high-school language arts in New Jersey for three decades before retiring. She has consulted on guides for three PBS poetry series. Her work was selected as Poem of the Week with The Missouri Review, was featured in the article “Exceptional Prose Poetry From Around the Web: June 2021” by Jose Hernandez Diaz, and recently received five 2021 Pushcart Prize nominations.

A Portrait That Begins with Porridge

Mom would come in from working the over-night shift
and start porridge on the stove: cornmeal or oats

and sometimes add sweet milk, nutmeg and vanilla—
The aroma satisfied our pallets before the first spoonful.

We sipped porridge and placed lumps on the side of the bowl.
Sometimes she was home from work before

we came from school, and the dinner on the stove
was intoxicating upon opening the door. 

Although I recall a few times when the lights were off,
most days were warm in winter and the steam whistled

as it came out of the radiators and filled the air
with moisture and fogged the mirrors of our house.

What My Work Is Not

                     after Philip Levine

I knew from a young age what I didn't want to do.
         I didn't want to wake each morning and head

to someone else's home and spend my days washing toilets,
         scrubbing grout, doing someone else's laundry

and checking their underwear, before folding, to make sure it’s clean.
         Mother knew what my options were if I didn't study.

She took me with her and showed me her work
         and what mine might be if I didn't try.

All honest work is elevating to the soul but didn't mean
         I have to spend the rest of my days doing work

mother never intended permanent when she put a dust rag
         in my hand and said start there.

I learned what my work could be at a young age.
         When she said empty the garbage pails,

and make sure you put everything back exactly
         where the lady had it or she'll think we stole something. 

Like Flour Through a Sieve

I learned to bake in home economics class with Miss Epps, a lovely black woman who taught at my junior high school. Cooking with her was unlike with my mother. Her instructions were written, precise and clear. I took notes in my black and white composition books, and I don't remember her ever being angry with me. After I graduated from making sugar cookies and chocolate chips, it was time to make a cake and the cake would be pineapple upside down. I made it from scratch following the recipe with butter, pineapple slices, cherries for the centers and sugar and flour strained through a sieve to eliminate lumps and foreign matter. Just when the aroma of the baking was at its peak, the clock on the cooking room wall said it’s time to go. So much of life would be like straining flour through a sieve, sifting people out of my life who might ruin what I’m trying to make or eyeing for foreign matter that would spoil my confection, always aware I’m running out of time.