Ida Clara Deorsam Rose, 1907-2007
I Declare a RoseMamaw's answer to everything was
dope and salve, such remnants of the thicket
as primeval alligators and orchids.
So what's moss for which masses?
For whose holly with ducklings?
A gar jaw? A trailer hitch?
That damn boat ramp.
Mamaw caught the dishwater
to rinse the okra patch. Her knotty
cypress knees kneading troweled
soil. Her handkerchief so Boraxed,
so lavendered. Her hymn ever-
so baptized, so spring-fed.
Sleep Mamaw. We're singing now.
Your bread bags are folded
in every kitchen drawer.
Originally appeared in MiPoesias
