For Pops by Lennée Reid He tells me stories Tales from the deep south Bout how a raccoon Can whip a dog in the water I learn how to fell a tree So it lands just right I listen to his mama Cook 3 meals a day for 8 May be that’s why he feels so special When you make him something little Like a sandwich I hear the sound of sitting on the porch With a rifle I hear his heartbeat And a drop of sweat trickle off his brow I hear a murder of Jim Crows Pass over the family home Sisters in the house Threshold blessed with his own Blood toil and prayers He leads me to a field of memories Plowing behind a mule at 8 We go to cane mills Juicing winter sweetness Millstone rolls with the clop of a work horse I listen to the weight of a 65 pound Basket of cotton on the back of a child Who counts pennies for bullets and shot To hunt some rabbits or quail for supper Not a deer He never could bring himself to kill one I listen to these stories From the one person who gave me safety When I was with child And needed protection from the world A world whose cruelty he knows too well He was good at security with his Strong black 6 foot 4 body That escaped the draft But has fought battles of his own I know where 3 boys raised and sent to college Seen on TV in athletics I know from whence they came Great grand children of Two preachers children Raised on 40 acres and a mule In Mississippi For a few that tale is true Walnut and peach trees ornbread and poke salad BBQ and fish fries runs in their veins He is the great migration From southern farm to northern factory Ive learned a person passes out When their arm is mangled in a meat grinder Up to here Ive heard the pain of living a long life Filled to the brim with dead loved ones He knows more hurt and dead people Than friends I could name He speaks to me of people he names HIs cousin stabbed 13 times By her grandson And how at 80 shes still living People drowned in the Mississippi Killed in the war Nephews in and out of prison For no good reason People who died on his watch at work Died in his home His own brother He says, I worked every day Before work there was work And after work there was work Pops tells me stories Tales from the deep south Scenes of raccoons Whipping dogs in the water And trees felled just right
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 01:58:32 +0000
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