—Mother:
(Alabama, 1844, Moseley Estate)
A parent Adeline had many mothers
to leave behind some she cannot
remember some she cannot stop
herself from trying to please. In stories,
Brer Rabbit escapes Tar Baby and the Briar Patch
with the help of his mother imagine her soft paws
taking the tacky tar mark onto her own fur.
Each mother who is absent
(–See also, walked further
South in chains) can be thought of
no more than Adeline can take
a potato from the coals and
hold it firmly in her hand. I imagine
she must have thought of them: Did they
grow indistinct, the cluster of mothers as one cloud
cannot be separated from another on a rainy day?
–See also, mother culture, used to make
yogurt and bread.
— Daughter:
(Alabama, 1844, Moseley Estate)
1. Of a mother. Of a country. A land can
raise a daughter.
—Prepare her for bonnets. Apron
pockets for herbs. Behind her back
the strings. Scents caught
in the cotton of her dress, the bite
and caramel of onion. Coffee
brewed for other people
to sip. —Under her breath,
songs grandfathers sang
while razing trees other slaves
would lash and lug as logs
righting ships meant to carry
daughters from the hip
of their fathers, from their arms.
2. Of a country.
—Delivered
after purchase. To be soft
and useful
as a good coat.
—Maybe each day
something purple. A sprig
of flowering sage
behind her ear.
3. Of a mother. (—See also, Adeline:
I would not have been
left behind. That must have been
why she did not
hold close my hand.)
Adeline and the Hum
(Alabama, 1844, Moseley Estate)
When Master Moseley walks into the kitchen
his clean shoes against the wooden floor
drive most other sounds away. Find Adeline
so close to her mother’s skirts, the slack bells
of their dresses knock together,
quietly rustle. Her apron damp, fingers
sometimes weighing the hem of Granny’s sleeve
as though she’s a little girl. She suspends
all manner of clamor
on the sharp hook of the quiet: the imagined
the absence of noise before
one of the China plates slides from a soapy hand,
disintegrates into white slices. —
When he leaves, Adeline can hear
Granny’s soft hum as she peels potatoes,
can hear in her memory
boots treading across the stable floor toward her
and the horse she rubs down
each afternoon gnashing hay
under great teeth, can hear the tumble
of logs stacked in Moseley’s bedroom
each morning. The hum
fills her hands in the warm water
with her own hands. In the hum
Adeline plans to find Squire later. Tell her brother
the one about Brer Rabbit growing
full on cool thick cream. Setting clean saucers
one inside another, she sees herself
hopping around him, fingers over her head
mimicking ears. Squire — his belly round
as a full sac of cotton, the rungs
of his ribs easy enough
for any small angel to climb —
will squeal — feet dancing on the ground.
~~~
Rachel Nelson is a Cave Canem fellow and a graduate of the University of Michigan’s MFA program. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Atlas Review, Little Patuxent Review, Muzzle Magazine, Smartish Pace, Radar Poetry, and elsewhere. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
the museum of americana: A LITERARY REVIEW 