Clean.

 I live in my mother's back yard. In a house as yellow as
summer lemons and just as sour
 beyond the pith inside. Two sons and three daughters have fallen from
between my legs
like water. I am quick as the slick of sleet on nighttime pavement and
have mimicked my
mother's weeklong work in white women's kitchens. But, I have
refused rough knees knocked out
on the rub of linoleum and wood by bending low when they came in to see
me shine their floors.
I never got down on my knees for white folks or God either.