Gumbo

(for those who held me in Jackson, MS)

his palate misses
the 72 hour stew
conjured by warriors
who lay hands on
speak in tongues over
kiss with full lips
share with unsuspecting hearts
gumbo

a displaced reddirter
longs to lick the spoon
savors being so close to home
that he knows not the difference
yes, these are his folks
so he laughs a full laugh
slaps his knees
runs out the room
this kind of happiness
resurrects a child
who disremembers heart-hurt

oft mistaken for Yankee
he comin' back
like a prodigal son
remembering his shine
in order to remember his tongue
thick and drawled out
country with little regard
that there's any other way to be
stirs his sugar tea with knifes
like it's kool-aid

he recalls spirits that speak
through read clay
in Mississippi or Memphis
studies the imprint
as if it were holy script
dark-palms and full noses
have special sensibility
for their own
prophets

he leaves
almost wishing he never came
returns to the concrete cityscape
from whence he came
questioning
why he ever left home
in the first place
if there was possibility
of feeling so full
in the very place he felt so empty
and alone

he remembers their gumbo
prepared by cornfed, cornbread deacons
singin hyms and prayers as grace
he relishes the memory
feeling so warm
stirred and watched with careful eyes
like gumbo
licked off colored boy fingertips
who'll miss his boondock bohemian flavor
as sorely as he misses home