Reminiscing About the Peanut President and Western Music

Let me show you how the cow eats corn,
Pa-Pa would say,
Then grab my knee and rub the bones together.

Sometimes after, we'd wet our hooks--
I'd sit on the bank and try to catch
The crickets by their legs.
He'd bitch about taxes
And the good ol' boy from Georgia.

Sundays, we'd lie in the hammock
Under the magnolia and
Lick cherry popsicles
'Til our tongues were red.

Then we'd ride in his '69
Black and white Dodge,
Talking about how country music
Was good for the soul,
And how he learned
To play the fiddle.

--Chasiti L. Kirkland

Papa Henry by Sally Kirkland

High Tide

I loved him
like I love the ocean.
The sun that
warms my face and shoulders,
the soft coastal breezes
that tousle my hair,
and the cool waves
that lap against the shore.

But eventually,
sunscreen gives way
to burns and blisters,
the rising water forces me
to higher ground,
and the sand begins to
irritate my swollen skin.

And finally,
when I have taken all
that I can, I pack my
blue and white beach bag
and go home.

--S. L. Spooner

Untitled by Caroline VII Miller

You Don't Know Love

You don't know love, Queen Esther Mae.

But Mama--

You don't even know what love is, you silly girl.

Oh really?

Have you ever felt anything like butterflies in your stomach?

Yes ma'am.

Girl, that's just a case of the nervies.
Do your hands and knees shake like crazy?

Yes ma'am.

Honey child, you just got a case of the shakes.

But Mama--

No child, you don't know what love is.

Yes I do Mama.

Love is too real. It'll make ya or break ya.
Stay young, my child...stay young.

--Hetlena Johnson

Child with Mortar and Pestle by Lorenzo Williams

Mojo Cafe

All dat's said has no meaning
Until de hunted's brought home.
I wouldn't be caught dead
Near the docks at Twilight.
I cut my lines early--
I'm no damn fool!

City folks themselves
Come out here once a month.
They don't stay none too often:
This place kinda creeps
Under your skin

And there's things
In dis here Bayou
What hunt de swamp by night
Where men 'fuse to walk:
Untamed, savage things
Dat tune out de sounds
Of both frog and mosquito.
Us men are jus' fodder
That get in their way.

Now I ain't saying
I'm an expert--
I just know the rules
And the one I know best
Is cut your lines early

And tell nobody nothin'
'Less you want to
Scratch your soul,
'Cause the swamp itself is
A whole 'nother world.

It's a place where the Loup Garou
Hunts for fools who go
Into de swamp at twilight.

For nigh on twenny-five years
I been cuttin' my lines early
And I've lived long
Enough to see a whole
Mess a grandkids.
Me, I know my place
In dis world of ours,
And no matter how big
Or brave a man is,
They's things in this swamp
Dat makes heroes go to jelly.

I cut my lines early
And live another day.

You just go ahead,
Go ahead, you stubborn bastard,
And we'll see in the morning
Who's brave and who's dead.

--James Enelow

Untitled by Micheal Boasso

(none of this happened to me)

My father used to come into my room.
The door would creak open,
bathroom light would leak through,
and he would tip-toe, smiling and staggering,
to fall upon my Speed Racer bedclothes.
He would speak to me in
incomprehensible tongues;
long vowel sounds and slurpy consonants.
He would breathe his sour breath
across my face and kiss me there,
and there...and there...

and there would be bright
lights behind fist-tight eyes,
like Christmas my father would
tell me, as I tasted salt and
snot on my lips and felt my
bent knees buckle.

Then my father would flop beside me,
kiss me again and, stroking my hair back,
tell me he loved me.

I would watch his eyelids,
dribbling like basketballs,
eventually stay shut.
Then I would fall asleep,
tasting his sour, beer breath,
and dreaming of buttercups.

--John Lowery

Untitled by Micheal Boasso

While Sleeping

Sometimes, while we lie together,
Just dozing lightly,
I see the glare of the Prevue Channel
And feel the smoldering embers
As they propel their white-hot souls
Into the emptiness of the cold room.
I feel you, your body just behind mine,
One of your lazy arms draped across my waist
And your chin nestled into my neck.
The slow, even pulse of your breath
Lulls me nearer to slumber,
Until the hand on one of your lazy arms
Reaches up to touch my shoulder,
Caressing me with a tenderness that is sometimes
Lacking while we look at each other with the knowledge
That we know each other and still have much to find.
I am unaccustomed to the freeness of your sentiment
As you touch me, slowly, with the wonder of
A child gazing into awareness for the first time.
I feel you exploring me, without reserve,
Without the burden of sexual intentions
Or even thought--
Just with an easiness that touches me,
Makes me wonder what you are feeling now,
If this second Valentine makes you value
The one before and the ones to come.
For in these moments, when you think I am sleeping,
Our fear of knowing too much
Begins to dissolve.

--Peyton Barnes