Wisdom from the Wound: Homegrown

I am from the land of sweet dirt 

where old the folks plant their seeds and treasures, 

invisible to the critical eye 

the porch, a sanctuary for stillness

amid the Mississippi heat and buzzing cicadas

stovetops cover with black eye peas, okra, and cornbread

a ruckus of love and foolishness fill the kitchen while the children try to stay out of ‘grown folks’ business’

the streetscape is a kinship where everybody knows everybody (and their business too)

my reputation is summed in ‘who’s your grandmother?’

Saturdays, we sing the blues 

Sundays, we speak the parables 

I searched the world in hopes of finding fertile lands of belonging

and It was underneath my feet the whole time