R. S. Gwynn

Her e-mail inbox always overflows. Her outbox doesn’t get much use at all. She puts on hold the umpteen-billionth call As music oozes forth to placate those Who wait, then disconnect. Outside, wind blows, Scything pale leaves. She sees a sparrow fall Fluttering to a claw-catch on a wall. Will He be in today? God only knows. She hasn’t seen His face—He’s so aloof. She’s long resigned He’ll never know or love her But still can wish there were some call, some proof That He requires a greater service of her. Fingers of rain now drum upon the roof, Coming from somewhere, somewhere far above her.

Glory be to God for breaded things— Catfish, steak finger, pork chop, chicken thigh, Sliced green tomatoes, pots full to the brim With french fries, fritters, life-float onion rings, Hushpuppies, okra golden to the eye, That in all oils, corn or canola, swim Toward mastication’s maw (O molared mouth!); Whatever browns, is dumped to drain and dry On paper towels’ sleek translucent scrim, These greasy, battered bounties of the South: Eat them.