Far From Genesis

She took the mandolin
Fingering the strings
Like one familiar
With the neighborhood
Eyes flittered
Then closed
As though she were reading
The music
Behind her eyelids.

I closed my eyes too
Involuntarily
Needing to travel
In my mind
To places called home
Generations ago
Way back in my DNA
Before I had eyes to close.

And suddenly I was there
Deep in the pine
Down the creek
In the holler
With barking dogs
And wide-eyed kids
Growing up out doors
Amid the smell of
Hogs and corn liquor
All filtered through layers
Of Gospel hymns
And brush arbor revivals.
I swear I was there
With the Mississippi heat
On my shoulders.

But when she stopped
Replacing the caramel-colored mandolin
In its cover
I opened my eyes in Chicago
My Pontiac in the Grant Park Garage
Waiting for me to adjust the air conditioning
And Heads Up Display.

The snake has slithered far from Genesis.