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late, in aqua and ermine, gardenias
scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent,
her gloves white, her smile chastened, purse giddy
with stars and rhinestones clipped to her brilliantined hair,
on her free arm that fine Negro
Mr. Wonderful Smith.
It's the day that isn't, February 29th,
at the end of the shortest month of the year—
and the shittiest, too, everywhere
except Hollywood, California,
where the maid can wear mink and still be a maid,
bobbing her bandaged head and cursing
the white folks under her breath as she smiles
and shoos their silly daughters
in from the night dew ... What can she be
thinking of, striding into the ballroom
where no black face has ever showed itself
except above a serving tray?
- rita dove, "hattie mcdaniel arrives at the coconut grove"
posted May 05, 2004 in print. 20032001