Willis

I am from a dirt pile That stood outside in Benson, North Carolina, Our tiny house that I don’t remember. Diving face first into the clay (dry, red, metallic, my brother standing there and laughing). I am from the magnolia tree, Across from the dogwood That was so easy to climb, like a spiral staircase, And I could go so much higher than my brother For once, because I was so much lighter.

I am from cocktail wieners, Hot dogs that had been cut into bite sized pieces And cooked with plum jelly, yellow mustard, and hot sauce. I am from the hallways of St. James, empty and long enough to run down full speed When the rest of the congregation was still at work. And from Parker’s, the smell of peanut oil and corn sticks, Intoxicating and harsh. Boxes of it for Wednesday dinners, Hauled in our Caravan from Rocky Mount or Wilson.

I am from Shelton’s missing knee cap, Voahmmie’s pickled artichokes, Woody’s shiny silver dollars for all the grandkids. From Thanksgiving with Pop and Mitta, and Lynwood stopping by, And especially from the week after, My grandmother getting rid of bloody sheets, and a room full of old-timers Casting sideways glances, and not many wet eyes. And another similar room only a town away with plenty of wet eyes, And from two orphaned cousins. I am from a tree that has deep roots, that even if they grow dry with neglect, Are watered just enough each year to keep all the buds green, and connected and Blooming.