Potluck

When the Cast Iron Speaks… you will know
all crops aren’t created equal. Seeds here
are sacred… a culmination of intentional manicured
blueprints for ancestorial pow wows. This be aggregation personified.

They told us the soil was sterile but
We still have bountiful harvests. All it took was
Fire under the iron and essential oils to coat the blemishes.
Like my allspice knows no bounds. The sugar canes here
ain’t for sugar daddies like you—Lands here cherish the
sweet mommas and the babies are enriched here.

If you didn’t tred carefully, the tobacco won’t be the only thing smoked here.
Take hand to plant… feel for the sapling of life. Have you forgotten
How to pour living water into the environment around you?
We took time to collect the sap, to extract the memories.
We misunderstood tough love growing up.

I learned how to lemonade my lemons
How to balance out the acidity and find
Something sweet. Meaningful. Refined.
Ain’t no diabetes in this pitcher. Medicines
Here grow in the backyards. The window seals.
Makeshift pots in our backyards.

The lessons passed down from family be the black pepper seasoning
Butt whoopings are the herbal seasonings. Selective but necessary.
The parental talkback be the mitt to protect from the fire of the skillet
Talking back only provides salt to the wounds, preserve your soft tissue accordingly.
Welcome to the potluck.