East Texas, 198_
I remember, we walked (we didn’t walk)
from the farmhouse to the store in Palestine
(we drove the truck, got out, went in).
The storefronts hadn’t changed since
my father was a child. He grabbed saltines from the bin
(he brought a box) and he bought some sausage.
We walked (yes, then we walked) around town
as we ate (he shared). He gave me some summer
sausage, cut with his pocket knife. I pulled the pieces
from the point of the blade. I knew (knew)
nothing would happen (though he was silent)
to alter this memory. We were together
in Texas and we ate and walked in silence
and it felt like smiling, like skipping, like saying,
“Daddy” and him not minding, not minding at all.
Vievee Francis, “Still Life With Summer Sausage, A Blade, and No Blood” from Horse in the Dark. Copyright © 2012 by Vievee Francis. Reprinted by permission of Northwestern University Press.
Source: Horse in the Dark (Northwestern University Press, 2012)
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