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

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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.