Thank God for Mississippi, that damned land I call home
Even as I leave and stomp out the door
That siren of the gulf sings her sorrowful requiem
Wailing for the souls of Camille, Elena, Katrina
A southern woman I remain, my dress stained in Yazoo Clay
Stubborn as a mule, I can’t help but
Return to heed her cries, to wrap her in cloth, and sweep her to the church nave
Her cries are heard but the congregation keeps singing
I pull her to my bosom, a tear rolls down my cheek
And the hellfire and brimstone makes sweat roll off my brow
So I hum the short hymn, “That Old Rugged Cross”
Praying the blood on her hands could be exchanged for a crown
But the blood could be from her peeling many fruits
The tomato sandwiches on Bunny Bread we ate on hot afternoons
The stains of cherry Kool Aid from those pickles she made
Or the Dragon Wing Begonias she planted in the yard
Perhaps it’s from the sons she lost
The battles that made wives widows
Did she do this to herself and sing her old siren song,
Garnering pity and welfare from the old men up in Washington?
But she baked me a casserole when my grandmother passed,
Sitting up with Myrtlene and holding our hands
While she hummed the short hymn, “That Old Rugged Cross”
Knowing blood’s thicker than water and Mississippi’s our mother.