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.
|Jun 03, 2014||The Pink Crosses||Amanda Auchter|
|Jun 02, 2014||Verge||Mark Doty|
|Jun 01, 2014||From the Telephone||Florence Ripley Mastin|
|May 31, 2014||My 71st Year||Walt Whitman|
|May 30, 2014||Recognitions||Rachel Hadas|
|May 29, 2014||Still I Rise||Maya Angelou|
|May 28, 2014||real poem (personal statement)||Rachel Zucker|
|May 27, 2014||Lie||Rae Armantrout|
|May 26, 2014||Were They Hands Would They Flower||Rob Schlegel|
|May 25, 2014||To Sylvia, To Wed||Robert Herrick|