Aunt Gracie's by Hannah Jones

tobacco fields stink

worse than collards

greenish brown

 

windows down

 

muggy breeze

fingers reaching out to touch

nearly touch

the cotton balls

as they fluff by

 

            because if you touch

            perhaps you will know

            what your foremothers knew

            ages ago

 

down in the Cackalacky

the dirt road

stationwagon

rickety, creaks

 

with the grease of fried chicken

in spotted napkins

 

and thighs, sweaty

sticking to hot leather

 

two angry sisters in the backseat

lips smarting from the pinch

of reprove

and stewing from the heat

 

cold tomato slices

say Goodbye

 

and every 200 miles

you might stop

at a tiny gas station

where there’s a single attendant

and your father

 

vanishes

and emerges

---

Hannah Jones is a child clinical psychologist from the San Francisco Bay by way of Virginia. Dr. Jones also leads social justice oriented didactics. She has always used written word as an outlet to integrate her academic and artistic identities. Dr. Jones writes to articulate silenced hopes, dreams, anxieties, fears, and experiences. Her work has been featured by Split This Rock and My Whisper Roars and is published in TAYO Literary Magazine.