for granny “C” Carmel
Molasses dripped from your chin a heat-soaked mess, the porch melting our skin, nothing but moss and whiskey in our pours.
Crepe myrtle seeped in from the bayou to my nostrils. A hint of your musk, caught on my tongue satisfied, pure silence except the sound
of momma’s voice echoing off the cypress tree, calling for me—
Your lips pressed, red brown to that mason jar perfect crescents—their shape, so deep, like the moon split. Lost in a field of your skin, transfixed in your mahogany. You looked up,
your dark eyes sent a jolt through my veins, stopped and started my heart’s rhythm again.
I wanted to run away with you, far from the troubles of what color we were and where we were allowed to sit and stand. Our hands met,
like sparkplugs jumpstarting that ole pickup, you offered to walk me to your grandfather’s farm up “that there” road.
I left out a laugh that you said reminded you of piano scales repeating a blazing tune. I said, your hue-splattered hands
reminded me of God after painting the blueprint for Creation—smudging green here for the grass and aquablue there for the sea. You stretched out
your palm and asked me to walk with you down that dust-covered road back to reality.
I knew this day would be a story for our children, these August summers we spend together.