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.
From Only Believe (The Word Works, 2024) by Jennifer Bartell Boykin. Copyright © 2024 Jennifer Bartell Boykin. Reprinted with permission of the publisher and the poet.