Mississippi Gin

the soft fiber tickles, wrapped in quilted squares
pink rose hands, jazz fingers, hand sewn
Mama’s baking sweet smellin’ butter rolls

— a pour
of gin, that aggressive gin, takes the sweetness away

Mama’s stomach left twisted
warm gin, smooth gin, burning gin, fizzy
knee deep in mississippi
tall tale of blasphemy towering
over wild magnolias hung
with teary eyed blossoms
a man on clydesdale
— squeals

—pour
some more

the soft fiber prickles,
in quilted squares
baby hollerin’ on back, wrapped
shaded from a big brim hat, pigtails rattled
Mama’s plum hands, brutish brass fingers, plucking
instrumental to the allegory of god’s hymns
shackles lead in head melody

greenwood born,
banner lived,
vance buried

beneath the cotton gin.

By Sable A.P.H.