April 26 Georgia

A boy mows the field next to the

            Senior Center: offices locked

            but blue bars and stars decorate

            signs out front.

Southern mists rise, pulling names

            from graves – a haunting –

            families foraged from left over

            people who did not foresee faults.

Collards and black-eyed peas glance

            at luck; chicken and dumplings

            bridge religion – not race.

Those keys are kept in generational pies -      

            though quick acquaintance

            can be had over pond seining –

            fish fries – or moonshine.

They won’t look, but fingers cross and

            casseroles cover wounds and scars

            built in eternity.

There is no end.

His grandfather is buried at Mr. Elam’s

            feet – there’s a rub that cannot

            be dug up.

Recollected history means more

            on this day than textbooks

            and undiluted sweet tea memories

            float up Freeman Harris Road.

This is more than we think it is.