Sitting Kentucky Mother's Mind: A Poem for My Mother
There’s a rocking chair
on her porch that faces
the sunset and every
evening after her labors
are through she lowers herself
(like one would handle a
Ming vase when packing it)
safely into the wicker chair so
that she may sit and watch
the sun go down-
(memories;
yes, life is a sun-path)
rising at birth, shinning bright
in the middle, and slowly
sinking towards
the end.
The radio beside
her is playing tunes of
yesteryear, old records
of voices, the sound of her
parents, her children, the
clack of horses, the
roar of airplanes-
but it’s not on
She looks down at it
and with a spidery hand
turns up the volume
(it’s not plugged in…)
and hears louder the
sound of jowl bacon
frying on the skillet
and smells corn bread being
baked in an iron frying pan.
There’s leather britches
soaking on the counter
(she’d much rather have dried
green beans than dried pinto
beans.)
And it’s very, very rare that
there be anything on the stove
other than beans and hoecakes.
Lord ha’m mercy!
She’s ate her weight in beans!
Outside the children are
playing and she’s begging her
mom for a nickel to go get a
soda pop at The General.
Her mom looks at her, shakes
her head, and turns to put the
kettle of softened beans on the
wood stove to boil.
She frowns at her shoes
(dust covered hand-me-
downs, she can see her little
pink toes poking through-
they only buy one pair a year and
she’d like to keep’em clean)
and feeling selfish,
hugs her momma. There’s a
rip in her worn-thin apron and
the little girl commits it to
mind to mend the tear. It will
be a surprise. She leaves to
play.
“Doodle bug, doodle bug,
your house in on fire!” chant
children who drive straw
stakes into tiny holes (doodle
bug houses) waiting for tiny
bugs to clime the poles.
There’s “Red Rover” at
Tommy’s house and “Crack
the Whip” near Susana’s, the
older boys have gone fishing
and the girls play with
makeshift dolls of corn
shuck and their mother’s old
handkerchiefs.
But everybody is everywhere
and her mom will let her walk
just about anywhere in town
as long as she doesn’t pass
the fourth set of tracks into
Junction City. There’s not a
neighbor (and a neighbor can
be up to ten miles away) who
won’t welcome her into their
home, feed her a little
someth’n sweet if they got it,
talk a spell and send her
home happy.
The sun dips under coal mine
and corn field alike.
There’s static on the radio.
(there are no batteries inside.)
Her children are playing in
the yard, pretty sweet things
that babble to themselves
over Barbie Dolls and roar
“Vroom Vroom!” while
spinning the wheels of Hot
Rods. The neighbor’s kids
are always welcome (but, a
neighbor is only one house
down) and the children are
more than free to roam where
ever they like. Providing that
it’s in the front yard where
she can see them and they had
best stay away from the house
across the street, the woman
who lives there is down right
uncivil.
The oldest girl jabbering on
the phone, the boy begging
for money to go get pizza, her
husband staring at he small
ones with an odd fascination.
A breeze of thought blow
through her mind. “I’m
happy.” On Friday she’ll
take the kids to buy new
clothes and shoes. Yes,
shoes, the little ones tear up
so many pairs so quickly.
The radio keeps flipping
channels, there must be a plane
over head.
(Interference.) Just like all
those new gadgets and
whatnots of this day and age to
interfere with every thing.
Through the static she can hear
piano recitals with her
daughters, half time music on
the field with her sons and
graduation songs. She can
her the liberal “preaching”
of her youngest daughter (she
isn’t that young any more) on
everything from the fat and salt
in the jowl bacon and the leather
britches to the praising of
modern technology. Kid’s far
too young for politics.
“I don’t buy none of it, I went
through the depression and all
my years as a young’n eat’n
salt and fat and I ain’t gonna
stop now!”, say an old worn
out country twang.
“But, you are dad are killing
yourselves. You really should
watch the way you eat.”
How did she ever get rid of that accent?
It’s getting dark. It’s
getting cold. The sun’s set and
there’s a nice warm bed inside.
She turns the radio off.
(she’ll never know it wasn’t on.)
Rises carefully from her chair and goes inside.
12
