Huntsville
ALABAMA, 2021
FOR CHRISTINA NANCE
"Your great grand-daddy was a sharescropper here,"
my gramma would say, "until he disappeared."
Her skin was smooth like dark apple butter,
and her daughter, my mother, would look at me
like I was a whitetail. The windows would crack,
and I'd be left with keloids and jars of pickled eggs.
The rest of my family were alligators. I grew up shy.
Bobbing back and forth in my Sunday best,
I didn't talk much. And when I did, I'd speak
as if my tongue were a sweet potato.
And when I'd sing, I sang making the Lord so proud of me.
I'd feel the Spirit rise within, swaying
my hips and arms like a church fan in one hand,
and frozen strawberry lemonade, in another.
O did I love to sing, and hum hymns in the halls,
and when my sister would say, "Sing, Christian!"
I would! I sure would, knowing my heart would be safe
for long walks away from the forest edge with my sister.
With my eyes hiding behind shelves, I knew to pose,
pay my taxes, write letters, pick passing
blackbirds as lovers. They'd leave, I'd stay
I can smell anything., The scent of passion seeping
in through a man's skin. I'd smell the sheets, Old Spice,
what lotion she was wearing. I can even smell
the white lilacs on the day of my funeral.
To be a whitetail hunter, you must be so still.
I stopped singing the day I went missing.
Supposedly, I'm seen first lying on the lawn.
Supposedly, I'm then seen leaning on the hood of a cop car.
Supposedly, I take off my shoes.
Twelve nights go by.
Somewhere, a whitetail hunter
dressed in camouflage smiles,
one arm around his doe for the trophy picture.
I'm found in the back of a police van.
___________________________
Thea Matthews
Grime
City Lights, 2025
