Yolanda Pruitt
This is how you knew you were loved
your mama was tortillas
dipped in honey in june.
a firm orange tomato
eaten whole with salt.
she was c-notes folded sharp as letters
tucked into your palm,
an apology.
she was a Cadillac
an Impala
a rusted Chevy pickup
with a reckless man at the wheel.
she was sweet tea
steeped by a sun
only her mother’s western hands
knew how to pull so close
to the land.
even when she left you,
you knew love
was your big mama’s trailer.
& the nook of your grandmother’s lap
In the Heat of The Night
and avocados spooned straight
out of their skins.
your daddy was Gunsmoke.
a Lonesome Dove.
a televangelist,
a holiness church.
the black “Marlboro Man”.
Old Spice.
a cigarette, smoked
down to the filter,
a tall can of Red Dog,
a 40oz Mickey’s Malt Liquor,
easy.
you never saw him do nothing
but hold
liquor like a good woman,
never as gentle planned.
& even then, you knew love
was white rice
with sugar and butter,
& beans sorted & soaked
overnight.
it was fingertips burned numb,
measuring from memory.
flour caked under cuticles
& fried chicken cooling
on Sunday’s paper.
it was calloused palms,
a wood-handled knife,
& potatoes peeled, the skins
curling and coiling
away from the blade.