Petunias, By Alicia Cole

They clipped us off like so many petunias

in Alabama.  Always we lived in Alabama.

My mother and grandmother's hands were

white from flouring chicken.  I wondered

how they wrung the neck.  Not the gesture

of it, mind, but the feel-the feathery heft,

the quick snapping flop of the body's

weight, the singular motion of a wrung

body nestled on a strong arm.   Fathers,

I learned, were also made for wringing.

Huddled against my mother's thigh, 

her apron momentarily dry, I did not

hunger to understand any of the preceding

motions that had tied him to that tree.

I ate my first apricot that day, the Mistress

feeling sorry.  My mouth suckled the pit.

It's the roadside now where I stand, close 

to where the men in hoods have stood,

still eager to flour chickens, still raising

their wild petunia heads in Alabama.  

My grandmother sometimes stands 

with me when she's not wandering,

worrying her mouth with all the trying 

times of child rearing and Master tiring.

One day she will pass on-like my mother,

like my father-after all the worry is gone.

I will still be here wondering why some 

petunias are cut down while others 

are allowed to grow wild.  Will they ever

all feel sorry?  Where is God and His apricot 

and its perfect grow-anew pit?

Alicia Cole lives and writes in Huntsville, AL.  She's the editor of Priestess & Hierophant Press, and a visual artist.  You can find her at www.priestessandhierophant.com and www.facebook.com/AliciaColewriter.