Southern Legitimacy Statement: I open my mouth and the South comes out. I grew up listening to my mawmaw’s stories and trying to come to terms with the beauty, complexities, and dualities of growing up in rural Alabama, and I have spent my entire life trying to give back to the place that gave me so much life. My favorite childhood memories include picking tomatoes straight from the vine and getting flogged by chickens on the way to catch some catfish in our pond. I also have a Duke’s Mayo and pink Berkeley tie-dye tomato tattoo. It doesn’t get much more southern than that.
Jessica Sampley is the author of Tuscaloosa to Tupelo (Main Street Rag Publishers, 2007). Her poems have also appeared in Saints and Sinners Poetry Anthology, Oberon Poetry, Birmingham Arts Journal, Kakalak, and Indy Weekly. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from North Carolina State University and an Ed.S. in Instructional Leadership from University of West Alabama. Jessica grew up on the beautiful Smith Lake in Arley, Alabama. She now lives in an awesome historic home in Bon Secour, Alabama, with her beautiful wife, Malinda, their son, Carson; their red merle Aussie, Merle Haggard Sampley; and their grumpy old man cat, Bella. Jessica currently serves as the Academies and Career Tech Director at Gulf Shores City Schools in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
The Cowcumber Poem
“Summertime, the livin’s easy.”–Gershwin
I. May
I am a cowcumber leaf
folded in your palm,
perfectly cupped
around the cold stream water
your dry mouth craves.
II. August
I only wanted to take you back
where cowcumber trees grow in deep hollows,
(the gigantic leaves and white blooms
a cross between elephant ears and magnolias),
where the dirt road curves back through woods
then slopes steeply down to water.
Arrowheads ten thousand years old
churn up in the rain there,
beckoning us toward the past.
But by the time we arrived,
the woods were clear-cut, underbrush burned.
They sold the land off in lots
to people much richer than you and I.
A single charred oak is left standing there,
one broken limb barely hanging on,
and glaring down from another, a buzzard
pondering the remains of our love.
***
South Florida: the lover driving alone sees Indian River fruit
I left you in Miami yesterday—
the swelling heat there stark against
the cold north through Palm Beach,
Boca Raton, then all the signs exclaiming
INDIAN RIVER FRUIT HERE! $1 a bag!
I thought about a stop, a whole bag of fruit for a dollar—
must be a scam, but honey
tangerines and red oranges warm
my blood just like you do.
$1 a bag, sign after sign,
made me think about how the further
you get away from the source
of whatever it is you’re looking for,
the more it’s worth. Distance determines value,
dollar bags of gorgeous fruits, a roadside attraction
to distract this cold heart, a head that repeats
clichés—but will absence make your heart grow fonder?
By Lake City, in my mind, the ads beckoned,
a bread-crumb trail to lead me back to you, my source,
700 miles away,
and, now, at night, I dream of ripping open
dollar bags until thousands of blood oranges,
honey tangerines, pink grapefruit bob and float
down a long asphalt river straight to you.
***
At the Mill Creek Dam, Carbon Hill, Alabama—the Night Jay Almost Died
for Marcia
I conjure your outline in the darkness,
skulking on the mill creek bank.
That orange-red light burns
brighter with each inhalation.
I taste screwdrivers, Pericos’ fajitas.
And you told us not to do it,
but still we stripped to our skivvies,
let the cold water try to take us.
We stood in the edge of the rush
and watched Jay fumble across
black water before it swept him
downstream. I froze, thigh-high,
while Thad jumped in after him,
and we waited.
I glanced—bank to black water
and back again—and in that brittle
moment of uncertainty, I threw
my hands up, called out to a god
that I used to know, or one that used
to know me, and I strained to hear
something anything beyond the roar.
To see something besides black
water and the orange glow of your cigarette.
A few seconds later, they surfaced,
claimed a rock saved them both.
I still don’t know if that is true.
Or if it really even matters, anyway,
the truth of it all. I just know that we stood
there in the darkness, tragedy lurking,
just waiting to wrap its wiry arms around us.
