Smothered fried chicken, mustard greens, and black-eyed peas.
My grandma’s stockings rolling beneath her knees.
I hear her shoes, scrubbing the hardwood floors
as she shuffles through the hallway and out the backdoor.
Pockets full of clothespins, and a threaded needle on her apron.
Sun is shining on brown aging skin, a
Southern woman old and thin.
Born in Little River County, Arkansas
Fannie’s a long way from home.
One man and 14 children later, only six survive.
Spit’en Garrett snuff, and singing gospel hymns,
I can only imagine where she’s been.
As a child I’d think, did she ever have friends?
Grandma Fannie up at dawn
faithfully singing her gospel songs,
My mother’s mother and both are gone.