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.
About Shelby Stephenson
