Speleology

On July 3, 2006, I fried chicken with friends in Newport, RI. The morning after, I washed my skillet, thought of my grandparents, and wrote this poem. Speleology is the study or exploration of caves.

meals enter and pass
nothing left save
buttresses of memories
fortifications for exploration
the soft ring of fat
circling my center
is asleep and waiting
for cold hard times

lingering smells, laughter
warm dishwater
heaped platters of fried chicken
boom from the pulpit
there is no sorrow today
it is a comely fashion to be glad
joy is the grace we say to God

this morning I washed last night’s cooking grease from
my cast-iron fry pan
my grandparents’ fry pan
born 1934
Sinai, South Dakota
a heavy black face
the color of night without stars or moon
a cave of ancestry

pour hot water over the cooled cooking grease
the fat forms soft clumps
then tubes
then lily pads
on the water
shimmering stalagmite choirs
reaching for heaven
finding air, water, kin

clean and shined
warm and heavy in my hands
my grandparents pan spoke
hands that once held me once held you
placed upon my my face burnt offerings of
fried potato, onions, roast beef hash
rivers of creamed corn
carpets of creamed peas
fortifications for pain and love
twenty-nine cents a bushel
can’t pay for seed
can’t pay the mortgage
can’t pay the doctor

last night’s feast
carried a steep price
paid by hard times, hard work
sustained by
nourishment of ancestry
fierce kin
strong hands and bent backs
Doth not wisdom cry?
And understanding put forth her voice?