Bring out dem shears fo’ me baby, she’d say, amongst the sticky July. water
melons and beefsteak tomatoes ripe in the multitudes. memoirs rooted
in soil in squash in shallots and butta beans. my cornbread is her
cornbread at the rocking chair as General Lee outruns Boss Hog.
Her favorite pastime I inherit. Salt and pepper on beefsteak tomatoes
in the evening as the cicadas croon from their lungs like David
Ruffin bellowing from the tv. I watch her smitten over Motown
hits while shucking corn fresh from the harvest. In October
she’d say, baby I sure can go fo’ sum collards. A bushel
in the colander. washing. cutting. rolling. cutting.
Grab me dat fatback ova there, baby, she’d say, as the kitchen
conjures up an apparition I still see in her garden, just me and her
And the month of May. I guess you’d say
What can make me feel this way? My girl My girl