I’s jealous of ‘er,
Knittin ghost blankets with perdu needles
Tellin them children she don’t member she’s got
“They is a baby on the way.”
Taking me to places of our childhood
I’d long forgotten
in the wilds of Georgia
where we found baby skunks and thought they was kittens.
Momma fed ‘em corn bread and we kept them in a basket on the back porch.
Rock of Ages was the only line we knew.
Our underwear was made of cotton sheets
Or daddy’s shirts you could see through
from beatins on a warshboard,
But she remembers
the taste of poverty
as apples and sweet sand-plum jelly
on Christmas morning
while I’m stuck in the present bein an old woman
and she’s moving back
to precious time.