My grandmother was the neighborhood

candy lady – which means I come from

a long line of black entrepreneurs who

probably sold off hog maws and loosies,

and hell, even DVDs in parking lots

because someone had to be the one

to want to reach for greater.

That Shirley, the first plug to many,

had everything: snowballs, Cheetos, onion

pickles- you know, all the hood snacks beloved

this side of Park Heights- and never once ran out.

She was the reason why corner boys and salons

stayed in business, because she understood Reaganomics

before anyone else, she was the reason why

little brown kids knew to come in

when the streetlights came on, for there was a place

where someone was always looking for them,

while there was never a sign on the door, she and Jesus

were always open to feeding the multitude.

Every time I’d visit, she’d give me

a dollar hungry from her bra and let me

pick a candy from her catalogue of

life’s work, how brave she was to me

to make so little feel like infinitely more.

Nana, like all praying grandmothers,

was an economist, she taught

me how to answer “not home”

the Wheel of Fortune hours the landlord came

knocking from his corners, taught me when

to play the numbers (on the first and fifteenth of course)

and who to save the big piece of chicken for,

taught me how to break and barter,

give and stave off, showed me how to be

a mother and be just enough for everybody else.

Triston Dabney is a graduate Oprah Winfrey scholar currently pursuing a career in higher education. He has been published 8 times in the past two years. He hopes to publish a collection of poems and attend an MFA program in the near future.

Social media- Tristandbelieve