Not Cicely Tyson

Not Cicely Tyson

after Cicely Tyson

Cicely Tyson moved on from us tonight and everyone who loves me
Made sure to remember the one time we stood next to each other
At the salad bar at the whole foods on p street, and I definitely saw her,
Cicely Tyson, saw Ms. Jane Pittman, saw Rebecca Morgan, saw Ms. Myrtle
Standing right there. And so you know, I mean, this is
Cicely Tyson, and I have to work up the nerve a bit but, finally:

Excuse me ma’am? I don’t mean to intrude but… are you Cicely Tyson?

Cicely Tyson looks at me, all 4’11 of her, in a floor length fur coat and midnight calfskin hat
With matching fur trim, sunglasses tinted darker than the both of us, slender hands
Dipped in gold and space rock, upstaging the overhead fluorescent white lights shrieking in every direction of the supermarket, and in my direction goes:

What?
You said what now? Am I who? Uh huh… and what makes you think that
Even if I WAS who you say I am, that I would let you know about it, here,
In front of all these people watching!?

I looked back at Not Cicely Tyson, in floor length fur, wielding tongs covered in one thousand pristine islands,
In a way that made me silently question whether today was truly the first
Time she’d been confronted at a salad bar, or consider there’s no way she knew my name
But how I’m sure she had practice cutting a Miles or two down to size when she needed to, but then
I peer around at the other patrons of this northwest dc whole foods, who were casually sniffing cheeses or barking orders to overworked butchers or some, even, who were just on the phone.

I looked at Not Cicely Tyson, who still has me at tong-point, and then at all these white folks and knew that they, unequivocally,
Did not see Cicely Tyson, did not see Ms. Jane Pittman, did not see Rebecca Morgan, did not see Ms. Myrtle.
Standing right there dressed like a goddamn interstellar magistrate about to whip a crouton at my nosy ass and they, somehow, did not see it.
I profusely apologized before leaving, still tingling from having not met Cicely Tyson.

I’m sad that we no longer have Ms. Tyson with us but overjoyed to be certain that heaven is not a Whole Foods in a gentrified neighborhood.
I mean, they asked for her specifically right?
Called her up by her blessed name and said it’s time to come home now, we need you here.
We can’t go another instant without holding your face and hearing your song.
Without really seeing you
Again.

What about that for us doesn’t sound like a better place?