Thursday, September 6, 2007


there she is again and again and
her hickory chin reaches like Africa
with eyes so onyx she has passed them
down from her own Creek mama

from Crockett

she has reached as far as great-great-grand
at least two
there she still whispers on stories
those ones where the beauty in her finger tips
skinned squirrel and greased pans with sweet lard
and preserved apple butter and created
peach brandy and
the anodyne in

here she is now over and over and
she sits serenely on the cracked wood-sturdy
of her own back porch
her forearms lay gently over the curves and crevices
of a modern tobacco-colored rocker
too like the porch
secretedly cracked in the best places

puddin, hand mama a few of them figs--
just put 'em on a napkin and hand'em heh

she has never been venomous toward the common culture
she has never cussed ghosts when they--
for attention or warning or for
trying to remember how to smell--
interrupt her gardening or warm baths and
even now she wears the greatest intimacy of hurts
well underneath her shoulder blades and behind her knees
she protects each of them like precious old-real water
and even for me
her first and last great-grand
it is too soon to ask how-so
---or why

she plants me again with those same
onyx eyes I saw when I was born
she is nearly a century old now
and selfishly witty on death

every time it come lookin for me
I'm outside doing something.

she makes a joke about
Epampnonia, his britches and
on pies

we laugh so deep the moment becomes
reticent and thick

just about as slow as she enjoys
a good swipe to her lap
a new pinch of sweet fig
she moves through her own back door

you sho threwback
lil sista, didn't ya --eh!


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