mo' betta...

for Pearlie and Johnny Will Jones, Sr.

we listened to cicadas sing that afternoon, sitting on the porch
looking across the road named after Grandpa toward Cousin Huey’s
fields. as the darkening sky thundered, rain and wind cooler than
inside ceiling fans chased humidity off to the swamps, past the
clearing and log camp, around by the Flying Eagle

where you two sold 'shine and fish sandwiches. hard to believe you
ever set foot in a jook joint, but Uncle Charles and Uncle Leroy drove
me and Huey and Spanky past the spot last time we had a reunion.
Up the road, near Bogalusa, we all stood by the tree Grandpa hit
when the Klan ambushed him. Fools thought they could kill a deputized
veteran moonshining farmer easy as that? Imagine if Grandpa had two legs.

almost a century since you married, decades since you passed we Joneses
have become Grahams and Saintens and more, left and returned, fought in
wars, buried our young and old. We no longer work the land, citified and
spread in every direction; but we still depend on those roads to bring us home, on the rain and wind to stave off heat, on those trees to sing with cicadas
on afternoons like the ones we shared before you went home to God