A tribute to my grandma
Southern Fried Love
Crispy magic fried chicken
fresh collard greens
red beans and cornbread
sliced garden tomatoes
a chunk of yellow onion.
No one else can make it right
five years ago a hole was left in the world.
Grandma could make a silk purse
out of a sow’s ear.
Remnants from her job
sewing in a slack factory; dresses.
Aloe Vera for my burns
lemon juice to lighten my hair,
home remedies.
A strange red conglomeration
she mopped on my sore throat.
A secret salve rubbed on my chest
feeding my cold
starving my fever.
On a farm in Palmer,
Texas,
her boys picked cotton.
Grandma sewed for neighbors.
Only one cow for milk
butter bartered for eggs
couldn’t afford chickens.
Grandpa,
worthless as tits on a boar hog.
Took the cow to town
sold it to buy liquor.
Grandma went to town and bought it back.
He died drunk behind the wheel.
She never remarried,
had bad taste in men.
A trait passed down to me.
But I raised two boys in our small
Texas town,
With no support from their father,
working two jobs to make ends meet.
Our house, a sanctuary
for mistreated waifs,
their friends and mine.
But a southern
gentleman,
hair spun with gold,
sweet ocean eyes,
came bearing gifts for no reason.
Calling on his lunch hour
to say he loves me.
He chops cilantro,
fresh garlic,
sautés in olive oil,
browns boneless magic chicken breast,
covers it with garden sliced tomatoes,
Monterrey Jack cheese;
and bakes.
Grandma,
at her haunted sewing machine,
red beans simmering
on her heavenly stove,
just in from picking fresh tomatoes
from her spiritual garden,
made a life size image,
a blue print sewn with golden threads,
stamped with spirits approval.
Shipped on the wings of angels,
To me.
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