Praise the middle-aged woman at the intake desk
          who grins at me when I tell her of the changes
          that bring me here: title, registration, address.
Praise her when she grins again and hands me my
          forms and, spinning in her chair, says, His loss.
Praise the automatic voice that calls my number before
          I’ve even begun to fill out my many forms.
Praise Ms. A. Washington, the embroidery of her name
          on her navy, cable-knit DMV sweater so clear.
Praise Ms. A. Washington, who walks me through each
          form and takes my many documents and carefully
          scans them and returns them to me, one by one.
Praise her when she takes my photograph for the new
          license and takes it a second time when perhaps
          the first fails to reflect my specific charms.
Praise her words: In your name, as she hands me my
          new license plates and registration, the slight
          emphasis she places on the word, your.
Praise the greeting card that has kicked around in my
          purse, an artist’s freebie I picked up somewhere.
Praise my memory of it, so I can write my thanks to
          Ms. A. Washington while she methodically
          compiles my documents and forms for filing.
Praise her supervisor who allows her to accept my note,
          his ruling that my card is not a gift, not a bribe,
          just my gratitude I can leave a little of behind.
Praise the DMV. There: I’ve said it. Praise the DMV
          and the beautiful middle-aged Black women
          who work there whom, too often, we make
          a sport of resenting. They are beautiful. And
          kind. May they be praised.

 

Copyright © Sarah Browning.

 

 

 

Curator's Notes:

Niki Herd:

This poem finds humanity, amid loss, in a most unlikely place; a place I daresay most of us dislike. And just as we are feeling good, the poem implicates the narrator and the reader with the uncomfortable phrase “sport of resenting.” The weight of history is in those three words.