It’s a treachery, such progress.
Footfalls and all.
When did my fathers and mothers
rise off their four-footed haunches;
when did yours,
or did they . . .
The way sorghum is sold
you take it to town.
The boys’ job.
You rock in your chair,
Mama, smoke your pipe, dip snuff,
boil dinner on the wood stove,
dress the girls in case the preacher
takes a notion to show his face.
Why would I try dreaming up
the way I took my walks
through the mountains with blue haze
older than I will get to be,
she asks. Her rheumatism
keeps her down and cross.
If she takes her time,
if she can get past the pain,
she motions to the window, says,
I want to show you where I was.
(2 January 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander