photo of the Plankhouse by Wade Allen

                                  I. 

The awesome mist of some unknown flower
           Sprindges my voice into my father’s words —
           This plantation’s not what we used to work,
When Pap George, his father, David, held our
Future in slavery, though we knew that its hour
            Had come:  I think of the women —
            July — Obedience — skimming
Rocks on Middle Creek; still it hurts
            Me now to think of all the things
            Human beings have done that brings
            Heartbreak to families, with laws,
I mean, that must be overthrown and all —

                                    II.

 I know, yes; let me tell you, can you hear?
           What Nin and I have done to hold the past
           Awhile in our hands, arms, and eyes at last:
We revised the plankhouse you had rolled back
In the hedge, the mules straining muscles with no slack
           Of power behind family;
           You hired men to build a lovely
Home, ranch-type, after Mama flashed
           Her eyes at you; you knew they said,
           “You spend more money, Paul, on Red,
           And the rest of those dogs, than you
Do on us; we really need a house, too.” 

                                    III.

All that I think about — and the graveyards —
            Their flurry is real as my back-muscles
            And my longing to tell about scuffles
We boys would start to see who was stronger;
We’d wrestle — lift sacks of fertilizer longer
            Than we should; turn the Mason jar
            To our lips, let the brandy wear
Our natural prime — muscles —
            We knew we were born to work hard,
            And play hard, too — to twelve o’clock,
            Saturdays, then run to baseball.
I could play all evening, then court my doll.

                                    IV.

Maytle Samantha Johnson, your “Dumpling,”
           You called her; she didn’t mind — her calling?
           Help raise us children; work through our squalling
She quieted with a lullaby, falling
Into a soothing trance-like spell, never failing
           To stop our crying:  her picture
           The mantel holds, yours, too, cigar
Between your teeth, like you’re scalding
           A hog in the vat, around men,
           Swearing, drinking liquor for strength,
           The liveliness of God’s world — told —
You yearn to hunt the fox in autumn’s gold.

                                    V.

Sometimes I’m out of tune, bad:  I ought to
            Believe in plumbing — planting pretty shrubs;
            But I wanted the old well and its curb
In our basement, case we needed water.
We never did:  fancy bathroom? — I’ll use the woods,
            I said:  that room?  Best in the house,
            Though doing business with a mouse,
Behind the barn, among the scrubs
            Of sassafras — why, that’s heaven,
            To hunker down — get earth — level.
            I’m not sure I got there, the old
Plantation way died, but never did fold —

                                    VI. 

I know — go on away — like hymns of night —
           Just know that your accounts are on that wire
           You strung them on:   your desk?  That wire and nail.
And Nin and I sit on the porch, all right.
She thinks Fifties on Paul’s Hill must have been a sight —
           The pace:  slow for going fishing,
           And running the dogs, too, wishing
We could see the fox, red or gray,
           Didn’t matter — we heard music,
           Which I hear now, an acoustic
           Frailing you played on your banjo.
Maybe this is a prayer:  I hope so. 

                                    VII.

For smoker’s everywhere I do not cease
           To name Kents, Salems, Viceroys I have smoked;
           The frilly hints of mist or mythic toasts
That make studs out of boys; models:  Clarice
Becomes Virginia Slim; Stud struts Marlboro streets,
           With muscles big as billboard-poles,
           And wide as sunset ever gold.
I smoked Kools, left my lungs alone.
            Nicotine fingers turned yellow,
            Oh, my Maytle, tasting that sour,
            Sideways odor, my mouth, sallow,
As if a chicken roosted there — pray — tell.