Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

In the early contact period, New England Indian wampum consisted of small tubular-shaped shells drilled and strung as beads. — Alfred A. Cave The breaking of clouds begins with seizure. A man grabs another, reasons ransom. A murder averted in the thing’s scheme. A cape’s shell transformed, more than one supposed. What stands behind this? Enemy or friend? (Yes, they can be both. Don’t you think I know?) List: Dutch. Indian. Pequot. Puritan. List: Then. War. Event. Now. History. List. The shell buys glories of iron and pelt. Wampum is dismissed. Joke. Sneer. Currency of the disappeared whose children live still. List: Blessing. Curse. Wife. Slave. Savior. Savage. The shells make their noise. The robbed graves cradle. He who brings food to the starving gets cooked.

Who died and made you Elvis? —Bumper sticker The big rock by my door is a plaster prop, after all. I’m back to hear screams for what I can’t do, couldn’t do forty years ago. Awkward pelvic thrusts fooled the camera and virgins, but I have no more fish- fry tunes left to dress up on brand new plates. This time around, I spend all day singing cracked Mississippi homilies. Why did I want to live forever in the first place? Salvation felt better dead, floating home free while my bones, secret and brown, mingle with old dirt.

for Alvester James Long after it was necessary, Uncle Vess ate the leavings off the hog, doused them with vinegar sauce. He ate chewy abominations. Then came high pressure. Then came the little pills. Then came the doctor who stole Vess’s second sight, the predication of pig’s blood every fourth Sunday. Then came the stillness of barn earth, no more trembling at his step. Then came the end of the rib, but before his eyes clouded, Uncle Vess wrote down the gospel of barbecue. Chapter one: Somebody got to die with something at some time or another. Chapter two: Don’t ever trust white folk to cook your meat until it’s done to the bone. Chapter three: December is the best time for hog killing. The meat won’t spoil as quick. Screams and blood freeze over before they hit the air. Chapter four, Verse one: Great Grandma Mandy used to say food you was whipped for tasted the best. Chapter four, Verse two: Old Master knew to lock the ham bacon chops away quick or the slaves would rob him blind. He knew a padlock to the smokehouse was best to prevent stealing, but even the sorriest of slaves would risk a beating for a full belly. So Christmas time he give his nasty leftovers to the well behaved. The head ears snout tail fatback chitlins feet ribs balls. He thought gratitude made a good seasoning. Chapter five: Unclean means dirty means filthy means underwear worn too long in summertime heat. Perfectly good food can’t be no sin. Maybe the little bit of meat on ribs makes for lean eating. Maybe the pink flesh is tasteless until you add onions garlic black pepper tomatoes soured apple cider but survival ain’t never been no crime against nature or Maker. See, stay alive in the meantime, laugh a little harder. Go on and gnaw that bone clean.

Or a man who looks like him. I only know I call him Daddy (as all southern women do until the day we die). In my dreams he is still alive and this is not a comfort. I am my best when tragic. Grief becomes me. Daddy is more real in death, eyes dark, undimmed by the grave, smile less sincere. Matter clings to his thick eyebrows, his mouth spits mud when he tries to talk. He is candid. He tells me he liked my sisters better than me. Most times I search for him in a crowd of counterfeit Daddies. I look for pieces of him. An elbow. Black hair on the back of a pale neck. If I find him, I will say,Is that you? I know you this time.