MAGNOLIAS & MEMORIES
By Kathryn Takara
She walks out
leaving the smell of collard greens
pork chops simmering in bacon grease
onions, steaming rice
past the lanky dogs
hungry for hunting possum
the smell of gunfire.
She walks out
past the gate
across the golden field
deceptively dry
seductive to a summer wind
a spark, a fire
caused by lethal Alabama lightning.
She walks beyond
the homestead
slips under the barbed wire fence
across the neighbor’s cotton field
down the soft slope by the creek
mindful of bullwhip snakes, thorns,
water moccasins
sunning in sinister silence.
She passes
surreptitiously on
toward the giant magnolia tree
whose large viridian leaves
absorb her misery
whose magnificent flowers
sooth her wrinkled confusion.
She is called Daisy
cinnamon brown home girl
in a gallery of southern scents
white magnolias, the stench of burning flesh
after a lynching
terre green pine trees
smell sharp as ginger.
She moves cautiously
cradling searing memories:
flash forest fires
golden fields
dusty brown roads
unpredictable black snakes
fearless and fast as lightning
Alabama sky
blue witness
of countless, unspoken, color-inspired terrors.
She walks on
to a destiny beyond Dixie
beyond the racial creed
beyond the greens/pork chops/
possum/fireflies/jagged edges.
Her memories stick like thick molasses
memories of sweet magnolias
and lurking fears.
By Kathryn Takara
She walks out
leaving the smell of collard greens
pork chops simmering in bacon grease
onions, steaming rice
past the lanky dogs
hungry for hunting possum
the smell of gunfire.
She walks out
past the gate
across the golden field
deceptively dry
seductive to a summer wind
a spark, a fire
caused by lethal Alabama lightning.
She walks beyond
the homestead
slips under the barbed wire fence
across the neighbor’s cotton field
down the soft slope by the creek
mindful of bullwhip snakes, thorns,
water moccasins
sunning in sinister silence.
She passes
surreptitiously on
toward the giant magnolia tree
whose large viridian leaves
absorb her misery
whose magnificent flowers
sooth her wrinkled confusion.
She is called Daisy
cinnamon brown home girl
in a gallery of southern scents
white magnolias, the stench of burning flesh
after a lynching
terre green pine trees
smell sharp as ginger.
She moves cautiously
cradling searing memories:
flash forest fires
golden fields
dusty brown roads
unpredictable black snakes
fearless and fast as lightning
Alabama sky
blue witness
of countless, unspoken, color-inspired terrors.
She walks on
to a destiny beyond Dixie
beyond the racial creed
beyond the greens/pork chops/
possum/fireflies/jagged edges.
Her memories stick like thick molasses
memories of sweet magnolias
and lurking fears.
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