Kudzu Cantos Part I
May ’25
She walked among the dead.
Jamestown was starving; she wept.
She would die here, a footnote.
She had died before at Roanoke.
These men weren't ready or willing.
A few stepped up: work or starve.
Boats of relief came,
And a seed was planted, but with it a dark hitchhiker.
Soon gardens, everywhere, filled with tobacco,
And Jamestown and Virginia grew.
That seed, the nation's original sin, grew like kudzu on the warm Southern soil.
That was my cradle, where I took my first steps as the South.
Kudzu Cantos Part II
May ’25
My Southern voice grew,
Born in the Africa, Scotland, Ireland, and English
Public houses, the so-called houses of the rising sun.
On the mountain I sing,
And in the fields of slaves and sharecroppers,
Blacks and whites making someone else rich.
Every church, Black or white, praised the Lord and filled my voice.
I sing with a deep, rich voice, untamed in Storyville under red lights.
I came from the mountains with names like Carter to sing at the Ryman.
I left Tupelo and walked to the Sun.
The world heard me sing and turned to look.
I came from a dark holler, a little lady full of piss and vinegar, named Loretta.
I lost my voice a time or two—a plane in Iowa, the day Patsy died, Hank too.
I watched a record made at the Sun,
And saw it change the world.
I stood in awe at the Million Dollar Quartet.
I listened over the loudspeaker while watching a young Otis unload the car at Stax.
I saw the world come to the Swampers in Muscle Shoals.
I bent for outlaws singing a new song of the South,
And places like Athens blooming for the world to see.
My voice carried to the world,
And at the crossroads, Robert lingers.
I cried when Cash hurt,
And when June died.
I watched Carrie go a bit crazy on a truck,
And heard Brenda be told to put her bra on.
So I stand atop Grandfather Mountain and sing for the world—after all, I am the South.
Kudzu Interlude I
May ’25
Black coffee
Fresh strawberries
White Lily biscuits
Broadbent country ham
Scrambled eggs
Fried taters
Holy ritual from the altar of iron and fire
Made with love and lard
Kudzu Cantos Part III
May ’25
The table is set with fine silver and plastic
The plates are paper and fine China
Flatware by ancient London silversmith hallmarks sits proudly with Walmart plastic
She brings out the food
The Kentucky country hams
The White Lily biscuits
The fried chicken and waffles
She's there cooking in every kitchen and Waffle House
The fine China dances through the hotel restaurant
The wait staff in crisp black and white
She watches a line of swearing cooks
Their dance one of sweat and economy of moves, they call out "order up"
It's a fine brunch in cities across the South
It's a biscuit outside of Nashville
It's she-crab soup in the Lowcountry
A Hot Brown in Louisville
A burger and sweet tea at Milo's
A city ham and peanuts in Virginia
A shrimp po'boy
A muffuletta in New Orleans
A brisket at Buc-ee's
She's in every mama's banana and Duke's sandwich
She makes sausage gravy and red-eye
She's at every fish fry and church potluck
She carries funeral food, making sure no one goes hungry
She's the well-wrinkled hands teaching her granddaughter the unmeasured White Lily, lard, and buttermilk
Or their granddaughter's hands and the floured glass cut out the biscuits with pride
She cries as great-grandma's iron skillet is given to a new bride
She stays up late before the pig pickin', watching each and every coal
She stands as peacemaker in the BBQ wars
She's a peanut in a Coke, a boiled peanut
She's an RC and Moon Pie
Coke means every brand
She learns to make tamales and pho
She's in every Piggly Wiggly and ethnic market
She roams the farmers' market and the U-pick
She is the South, and its tastes are hers
She smiles and takes a drink of her sweet tea