1.

before him
i couldn’t stand text messages
preferred the tonal quality
carried in a baritone
but these days letters appear
on cell phone screens
my fingers clumsily return
their reminders of grace
new typing lessons I give myself
because I’m willing to learn
can relish the simple joy of alphabets
arranged to say “home”
without spelling it

i am no teckie
but this device curls my mouth
into grinning
so graciously
that my heart speeds up
eyes sometimes tear with joy
consider how I can offer
a more clever, unexpected reply
make him gushy-mushy too
i’m competitive like that.

2.

before him
i hated to love
father, son, and holy ghost
built a shrine to avoid synagogues
named my own disciples
but these days I pray all times of day
imagine a god I love to love
a savior stronger than pulpit bullshit
an amazing grace
sweeter than the sound
of voices singing their redemption
and there’s this substance
more present than things seen
something like spirit
pinching my gut,
ticklin’ my heartstrings
tellin’ me I’m already alright
guiding me to thanksgiving for family
moving me to bravery
and isn’t it ironic
that something deemed a sin
could be the source of my feeling
born again?

3.

before him
i believed that I could control
even my delusions of control
trick my heart into thinking
that not feeling
meant not hurting
these days I open myself
more fully to myself
cry when I feel like it
laugh when it’s funny
caress this hurt-so-good
with the same fingertips
that text messages
that clasp hands to pray over meals,
over meds, over these miracles
that are full proof that god is good

and even a creature of habit
can be made to believe again
can find courage to learn
to trust and believe
that things for this “him” I am loving
may have been a little different
before me.

(for those who held me in Jackson, MS)

his palate misses
the 72 hour stew
conjured by warriors
who lay hands on
speak in tongues over
kiss with full lips
share with unsuspecting hearts
gumbo

a displaced reddirter
longs to lick the spoon
savors being so close to home
that he knows not the difference
yes, these are his folks
so he laughs a full laugh
slaps his knees
runs out the room
this kind of happiness
resurrects a child
who disremembers heart-hurt

oft mistaken for Yankee
he comin’ back
like a prodigal son
remembering his shine
in order to remember his tongue
thick and drawled out
country with little regard
that there’s any other way to be
stirs his sugar tea with knifes
like it’s kool-aid

he recalls spirits that speak
through read clay
in Mississippi or Memphis
studies the imprint
as if it were holy script
dark-palms and full noses
have special sensibility
for their own
prophets

he leaves
almost wishing he never came
returns to the concrete cityscape
from whence he came
questioning
why he ever left home
in the first place
if there was possibility
of feeling so full
in the very place he felt so empty
and alone

he remembers their gumbo
prepared by cornfed, cornbread deacons
singin hyms and prayers as grace
he relishes the memory
feeling so warm
stirred and watched with careful eyes
like gumbo
licked off colored boy fingertips
who’ll miss his boondock bohemian flavor
as sorely as he misses home