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EVELYN
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EVELYN & HER FAMILY Her fingers are long, slender,
She could do needle-work, if taught,
But instead, she pulls meat from a chicken bone,
Mashes it between her fingers,
Then places it gently in the mouth of her babe.
She could easily play music,
I watch her twist and braid her hair in the mornings,
Taking small tuft here, crossing it under,
Raising another tuft up, pulling it over,
Until her head is adorned with a halo of beautiful locks.
She’ll slave away over a hot stove,
Hands, well oriented with the spoons,
Stirring hot liquids in pans,
Fingers cleaning greens,
Arms hugging a bowl of cornbread mix next to her body.
Then she’ll place a plate before you,
But not eat herself.
“Oh, I’ve been sipping and tasting,
I’m fine.”
Deep in my heart,
I know that she is simply too hot to try and eat.
And for the moment,
Her only desire is to see a warm smile cross my face,
As she knows that she has made a wonderful meal.
Later in the evening,
She’ll light up a match,
And smoke a cigarette or two.
Still consistent to her lady luck and charm,
The cigarette is pursed between her index and middle,
With her thumb tenderly scratching her scalp.
I’ll watch her long slender fingers,
Fondle the bridge of a book,
Fumble for the corner, then turn the page.
These fingers are not just digits,
They are extensions of her heart.
They feed and nourish you,
Read you stories,
Apply her make-up and contacts,
Just so that she can be a queen.
The queen her ancestors taught her to be…
"Never take anything from a man,
Unless it’s something you deserve.
Never let anyone touch you,
That you are not wanton of.
And make sure all your guests in your home,
Are loved, if they are worthy of it."
There are volumes conveyed in each gesture,
And so much unspoken truths I haven't heard or caught.
There is no arrogance,
No pompous attitude,
Of her trying to exert some ridiculous self import.
There is just the years of her family,
Sent down through a history of birthright and tradition---Where each child is better than the prior generation.
She is the wild garlic patches,
The stealthy crocodile of the Louisiana bayou,
The sad crying of the willow trees,
And the moss and ivy that tangle in my heart.
She is the scent of juniper and magnolia,
The softness of pure cotton,
The fun of a Bourbon Street jazz club,
And a spirit who sings of her love
Through the reeds where the passion fish hide.
Maybe this time,
As I bend my beak down,
I will not eat the passion fish,
But sing the only song I know,
And hope that she falls in love,
With the song of the Meadowlark.
