rough draft for a class, due on Tues.

hot house flower by zippy


Supper was on the stove top, almost ready for eating.
Mama was still standing over the okra
with the spatula in one hand and her cigarette in the other.
Her 'do rag was moist from the Louisiana heat
and the soggy oil hanging thick in the kitchen air.

She said, "Come in here, all three of you."
Our empty stomachs hastened our race
through the living room where the floor boards opened
to the roach nests underneath; where the turtle thought lost
found his way back to us from under the paneling covering the holes;
the little boxy bastard, lucky to be alive.

"Be still," she said as we squirmed our way to the cooker,
our dirty hands reaching for the hot plates stacked by the skillet
she was yet toiling with.

I used to think okra could cook for ever,
that it would never burn no matter how hot the flame,
no matter how long on the stove.

Mama turned and turned, the spatula in the oil,
the breaded vegetable floating and sinking and tumbling in
and over and on top of itself, waiting to be launched,
at just the right time, by Mama's slotted spoon
to the plate covered with the paper towel to collect the grease
as it drizzled off the crumbs.

"I have something to say to you."

We giggled and squirmed and made each other peel
with delight, waiting, waiting, our hunger growing
with the mingled scents of fried okra, potatoes,
chicken and corn, all the closer to our senses as we stood
there by the stove.

"I'm tired," she said and we giggled some more before she
flicked her cigarette in the sink and lost her breath to nothing in sight,
pushed out all her rage and in one great grunt
the cast iron skillet, full of hot grease and okra still frying
went flying through the closed kitchen window.

In a cacophony of things fallen and shattered, the glass landed in shards
as she collapsed on her self, slipping on the linoleum now oozing with grease,
sliding away from the stove, away from the burning oil, away from us,
her off spring, peering through bleary eyes and telling
each of us just where we were going, for as soon as she could
get us there she was to kill herself in a hurry.

Daddy was gone, and we were still alive,
and there she was crying 'why?'
and for the first time, so was I.