You can have this modern, cement bridge, with its supports and side rails,
the way it begins long before the creek comes into view
and continues long after the creek has been left behind.

Let me have that old plank bridge I feared as a child,
so close to the creek I could hear the water licking its lips,
see vines straggle from bent-over trees like an old man’s beard
             dragging in his red-eye gravy.

A stylish brick church stands there now,
its windows stained and pure, organ throned on high,
the building humming an air-conditioned tune.

Peel away these brick additions and let me have
that old clapboard church encased within,
windows open to catch the breeze,

air filled with the rustle of funeral-home fans,
piano chords so lusty the vase of flowers marches
to Zion right along with the congregation.

You can have this road that cuts away the side of the mountain,
this blacktop road with Burger Kings and Dairy Queens and rejuvenating
Scandia Spas, canned music blaring all the way to Birmingham.

Let me have that red dirt road that winds through the graveyard
back into the hills, plots of graves lined with low brick walls
where children teeter and learn to balance and listen to their elders
     talk of the dead.

Let me have that grove of hickories, rough plank tables underneath,
loaded with platters of Aunt Lillie’s pan-fried chicken,
Aunt Mary’s devil’s food cake, the chocolate dark as a country night,

my mother’s sweet potato pie, jars of Aunt Pearl’s pickled peaches
lined up like soldiers for review, and from the church window
the harmony of a gospel quartet calling reveille

for "that great gettin’ up morning, fare thee well, fare thee well."


From That Red Dirt Road (Parallel Press, 2010).
Used with the author’s permission.