Family Reunion

Thirty seconds into the barbecue,

my Cleveland cousins

have everyone speaking

Southern—broadened vowels

and dropped consonants,

whoops and caws.

It's more osmosis than magic,

a sliding thrall back to a time

when working the tire factories

meant entire neighborhoods coming

up from Georgia or Tennessee,

accents helplessly intact—

while their children, inflections flattened

to match the field they thought

they were playing on, knew

without asking when it was safe

to roll out a drawl… just as

it's understood “potluck” means

resurrecting the food

we've abandoned along the way

for the sake of sleeker thighs.

I look over the yard to the porch

with its battalion of aunts,

the wavering ranks of uncles

at the grill; everywhere else

hordes of progeny are swirling

and my cousins yakking on

as if they were waist-deep in quicksand

but like the books recommend aren’t moving

until someone hauls them free—

Who are all these children?

Who had them, and with whom?

Through the general coffee tones

the shamed genetics cut a creamy swath.

Cherokee’s burnt umber transposed

onto generous lips, a glance flares gray

above the crushed nose we label

Anonymous African:  It's all here,

the beautiful geometry of Mendel's peas

and their grim logic—

and though we remain

clearly divided on the merits

of okra, there’s still time

to demolish the cheese grits

and tear into slow-cooked ribs

so tender, we agree they’re worth

the extra pound or two

our menfolk swear will always

bring them home. Pity

the poor soul who lives

a life without butter—

those pinched knees

and tennis shoulders

and hatchety smiles!