|Oct/Nov 2018 Poetry|
As a teenager in Chicago, I denied any knowledge
of collard greens, black-eyed peas, or red-eyed gravy.
Feeling like Judas then, standing at the edge
of his betrayal; wondering
would my family understand and maybe
forgive me? I'd think of grandma snapping a bucket of beans,
and grandpa playing harmonica, sitting on the front porch swing,
the tattooed stallion on his arm trotting as he played.
They were as close to God as I've ever been.
With them I felt what family means:
The gentle hand-in-hand salvation from the sin
of pulling away.