Weir, Mississippi, 1984
Great and Grand-mother of all
rooted things waits on the family porch.
We make our way back to her beginnings.
Six daughters gather space and time
in a small kitchen.
Recipes as old as the cauldron
and aprons wrap around these daughters;
keepers of cast iron and collective
Lard sizzles a sermon from the stove,
frying uncle’s morning catch
into gold-plated, cornmeal catfish.
Biscuits bigger than a grown man’s fist
center the Chantilly laced table of yams,
black eyed peas over rice and pineapple,
pointing upside down cake.
The fields, soaked with breeze and sun,
move across my legs like Sara’s hands.
Chartreuse colored waters, hide and seek
in watermelon patches, dim my ache for Chicago.
Peach and pear ornaments
hang from Sara’s trees. Jelly jars tinted
with homemade whiskey,
guitar stringing uncles who never left
the porch, still dream of being famous
Toothpick, tipped hats and sunset
linger as four generations come from
four corners to eat, pray, fuss and laugh
themselves into stories of a kinfolk,
at a country soiree, down in the delta.
|May 07, 2012||You and Your Ilk||Thomas Lux|
|Mar 14, 2012||You & I Belong in This Kitchen||Juan Felipe Herrera|
|Apr 12, 2009||Yellow Bowl||Rachel Contreni Flynn|
|Jun 07, 2013||Year of the Tiger||Miguel Murphy|
|Sep 13, 2011||Year of the Amateur||Cathy Park Hong|
|Nov 27, 2011||Written on the Banks of the Arun||Charlotte Smith|
|Jan 03, 2013||Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746||William Collins|
|Apr 12, 2006||Wound||Inge Pederson|
|Sep 26, 2013||Worst Things First||Mark Bibbins|
|Sep 05, 2011||Work Without Hope||Samuel Taylor Coleridge|