The Creek Knows How to Run

I drive through Muddy Creek 

to go to my cousin’s house,

which is around the corner from where 

Moonsie’s house once was.

Before driving up that piece of road, 

I stop at the dirt lane, still visible, 

a lane leading to nothing,

but growed up grass and cotton that’s already

been picked.

The blackberries long gone, 

leaves burnt orange.

Getting off the bus to this lane.

Going to this school because it allowed 

me to go to Grandma’s afterwards, 

because my brothers were not old enough

to look after me yet. The time I was running 

so hard I fell, slid on my bookbag and slid 

back up to running in one fell swoop.

Etching out with a stick four corners

or hopscotch on the hard hearth of the yard. 

Foot races with other male cousins: I always won.

Meeting here before our annual trip to Huntington 

Beach State Park, where we grilled and dipped

our feet in the saltwater of the Atlantic. 

Finding a chicken snake in grandma’s closet.

Getting a beating for mooning cars; my brother 

saying I moonwalked like Michael Jackson

as each hit of the switch slices my skin. 

Granny emptying out a sack of potatoes full 

of roaches and us stomping on them.

Burning rags in a pail to keep the gnats away. 

Building booby traps for each other in the backyard.



Walking miles to the Lewis store for penny candy 

and Little Debbie cakes and honey bun with a thick 

hunk of cheese or a slice of bologna or Red Rock 

and a pack of nabs or chocolate Moon Pies.

Summers listening to The Young and The Restless theme 

song, Granny smiling at Victor Newman ‘cause

he was her boyfriend.

Sitting on the wooden-planked porch, 

waiting, waiting, waiting.

Taking pictures in front of the school bus

your cousin drove because back then high school 

students were trusted to drive children to and 

from school. Biscuits. The big, black Singer 

sewing machine with gold lettering and pedals.

The best deer meat hash of my life.

Dirt bomb fights from the huge clumps

of dried out dirt in the field. Saturday morning 

drop offs, watching the Dukes of Hazzard

and Saturday morning cartoons.

These are the memories that echo 

in the brown stalks

of cotton. They play out 

in front of me,

the house gliding on the air.

I love this house for what it gave me.

I hate this house for what it took from me.

I have no tears for it today. 

And get into my car to drive up 

that piece of road.



Hey, Jenni Lou! she greets me as she

always does. And I sit down to eat the food 

she has prepared. Wait for her to give me some

Tupperware or some laundry detergent I always 

need. I will get back in my car and drive back to 

Columbia, crossing streams, creeks, and rivers.