I Remember

I am dizzy with memory
Of old Arkansas
Its tumble-down dwellings
Where share croppers
Scratched an existence
Beside wives with bursting bellies
And necks scalded
By unrelenting suns.

The St. Francis
Bursts it banks every year
‘Bout this time
Carving its record of loss
In ledgers of vanished cotton
And lives hauled and thrown
Upon the mercy of land owners
And loan officers
Who drank from silver flasks
And grinned at what they would prize
From those who had nothing to pay.

I remember.

Tributaries of water snaked white fields
Bridged by coarse planking
With no rails.
Rattley old sedans
With bald tires
Raised red dust
To stain the blue sky
The way grey cavalry did
A generation ago.

I remember.

Wide front porches
Gave air
To old women
Whose hands split
Snap beans
For supper
With corn bread
And slabs of pork
Gathered from the smoke house.

Yes, I remember.

The preacher is coming to table
Next Sabbath.
The wash is waving in the
Hot wind
The way red battle flags
Slapped the air
With their blue cross
Inset by white stars
And didn’t every home
Set an empty plate
Even now?

I remember.

Concrete walks
Cracked and raised
By the roots of trees
More’n a century old
Line dirt streets.
Four blocks down
The business district lacks
Traffic
In its pull-in parking places
Where the barber
Leans against his stripped pole
His east wall
Featuring a ghost sign
Urging readers
To try Dr. Pepper
At 10, 2 and 4.

Yes, I remember.

I remember the grave yard
With sun-bleached stones dim and tilting
And dad’s stern lecture
To not bury him in a grave
Down where the water pooled
In spring rains.

I remember corner street lights
Charming thousands
Of buzzing and clacking insects
In glaring brilliance.
I remember mosquitoes and june bugs
Splayed across split windscreens
Headlamps and pitted chrome grills
Of dusty cars.
I remember screeching springs
Of front screen doors
And warped floor boards
Of wide porches
Where men whittled
Smoked and lied
While the women did the dishes
Quietly groaning about their men.

I remember I am torn
From this canvas
And part of the joy and pain
Of families riveted
By the blood of generations
Of pride born
From suffering
And weary labor
Of amazing grace
Linked by the desire
To be free
And to drop one’s head
Each night
On clean pillow cases
And suck in the balmy night air
Of old Arkansas.

Yes.
I remember.