Southern Legitimacy Statement:
Born in Richmond, VA, I’ve made it my forever home. My paternal grandpa was a waterman on the Chesapeake Bay, and to this day, I’m a seafood snob. I married an ex-Amishman to whom all things Southern have to be carefully explained. He doesn’t hold chairs for ladies or scurry to open doors. But he is a fine gentleman nevertheless. I’m proud to say that I survived teaching middle school English for eighteen years. Now happily retired, I spend time at my small cabin on the Bay reminiscing about how Daddy would cast his fishing net out from the beach and “catch a mess” of fish for supper.
Boarded Up
windows
once framed faces
looking out,
pictures’ eyes
hung on nails,
watched life
shuffle across floorboards,
witnessed hands carry the strap
or the scraps
for dogs under the porch.
Sundays dressed
in platitudes,
Crisco fried chicken
hand-printed on Grandma’s apron,
Papa rocked after lunch,
his cigarette smoke
burned into mystery.
Boarded up now, the house
slumps into silence
mired in muddy
tracks in the yard,
conversations carried off by rats,
chickens gone.
