Poem

Liz opened the stove and the smell of the casserole
Echoed off a memory deep inside my gut—

The pitch of forks rattling and being set on the counter
Beside spoons, butter knives, and red solo cups
Filled with cubes of ice &
Gallons of sweet tea—
A Southerner’s blood is 65% sugar
15% grease
10% Jesus
5% alcohol
5% chicken—
The click of high-heels, the slap of bare feet, and the thud of
Boots against linoleum,
And me, sitting in between men with giant shoulders,
As they used words like “next season”, “drought”, and “auction”.

As Liz covered the dish and laid it aside to cool,
I walked to the porch,
Opened the cooler,
Slid my hand beneath the ice and water,
Grabbed one more beer,
And tried to pretend it wasn’t Sunday.