My mother asks my father what he’s chuckling about as he walks through the bedroom door
“Nothing, just, she said it’s seven eleven.”
We both know she doesn’t understand
(And I know what he doesn’t understand, too)
The smile moves inside, but today it doesn’t die
Today it’s 7-11 and there’s two tubs of barbeque chicken thighs labeled in my own hand
Red, like the Alabama Wasp in Mom’s Mexican petunias
The labels dissolve in water, leaving plastic tubs nameless once more
Yesterday at Granny and Papa’s we sat on the porch and my cousin
Tried to explain how wasps make paper
“They chew up wood and spit it out” he says
(I close my eyes and think of how complicated all my college learnin’ would have made that)
I thank god for my Mother’s family
Three little girls shriek through a quiet evening and
Life is simple, when I let it be
It’s hot as sin out there, but I put one foot in front of the other until I’m back home
My uncle’s fruit trees hum with life
My aunt’s chickens are silently dreaming of an oven
(Maybe that’s just me. Don’t you work up an appetite in this heat?)
Days blur into one long hot summer
Sweaty arms have never felt so good to hold
The sun conspired to make me face my talents
And I found myself prolific
It’s hard to track all the movements of the stars but
The birds are so much closer
I’ve been stealing clouds for so long, I stopped to watch a tiny thunderhead fly past
Edges dusted with sunset peach, its impotent threat electrified me
Tumbling on the wind, made gold with dying light
Every day is Tuesday in the sky
Yeah, today is 7-11 and I’m lucky,
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