City came to dirt road last evening,
shiny Buick and long silken legs slid
from leather seats onto dusty gravel
then hesitated for a cricket's chirp,
testing the footing on this foreign land.
I heard her calling us 'provincial'
before she disembarked from her chariot
to greet distant relatives forgotten by time
cultured r's and l's unwilling to enunciate
the word 'boorish', her eyes told the truth.
Crouched in the garden picking snap peas,
dust flecked legs cinched tighter beneath me
I realized I was evidence once removed,
proof of the apple fallen from that nearby
splintering tree in a flowered muslin wrap.
Fingering her dark hair, wiping the sweat
from her brow in country nonchalance,
Mama extended her hand, mouth smiling
and I saw her jaw tense behind it,
her graciousness honest but strained.
Chanel and a shade of blond hair
never seen in nature hesitated
then shook the hand of the estranged.
Remarkably, it was limp, that handshake,
I expected so very much more.
Cousin Lyla dared to step up on the porch,
creaking under her weight at the center,
sipped iced tea and fingered pralines,
never dropping a crumb from those angel-devil lips
as I watched from the corner, ignored.
Mama’s voice was earth, Lyla’s something else,
hovering in between the sound of sky and storm,
unnatural and poised. The world quieted,
spoke softly from other places as if listening--
sultry afternoon eavesdropped unseen.
Family album names escaped into the air,
stories of days when the worlds were closer
than city and country, slipped into place,
the sides of these tracks and those explained,
and Lyla's smile softened, I was sure of it.
Afternoon turned to twilight as fireflies danced,
I waited for dinner, but Mama knew better
than to offer what would be refused
so she refilled the tea and Lyla fretted
more about time flying than time changing.
Then there was a creak of egress,
her heels to gravel remarked in her exhale
as she navigated to her car once again
and Mama waved, her smile released
as the dust flew quickly past, relieving our burden.
My gracious apple tree walked to me,
tousled my hair, kissed my sun-drenched cheek
and I handed her the peas for dinner.
I took down the skillet and thought of Buicks
and tracks and was happy where I had fallen.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.