Mother Greens 

A shadow monster stepped out from the walls yesterday, all Frightful and fanged and unhinged like I ‘spected it always would.  Oddly, calmly some say, spewing hot death in bits and bullets; Coolly visiting death’s breath upon unsuspecting dreamers. 

In my youth, tucked under the top bun--where adventure soared.  I wallowed in my fear, seeing the giant ants march in formation. Across the 4 x 6 universe above. 

Shadow monsters.  Ominously black, eerily silent, threatening gravity; and I held my breath waiting for them to drop like ninja assassins.  Cried I did, but softly:  just enough to maybe wake up momma but not so much as to resonate in the invaders’ ears, whining “Please don’t drop. . .don’t come down. . .” 

I learned the lesson of lovin’ when momma would come with a faint whoosh, whispering air preceding her and causing those damn ants to scurry. Her faintest sound stronger than the mightiest of Formacideans. Oft as not, we’d wind up in the kitchen, shushing away my illusions like some feckless dust bunny in the corner. And heat up the day’s meal—cornbread and beans and greens, and, oh my, the fortifying ambrosia of pot liquor. 

Yesterday, it came back as it always does, one giant, grinning skull in on the joke only he knew, only we knew wasn’t.  And six didn’t wake up to their mommas’ touches or the light of the next dawn that had always sent them scrambling.  Before. 

I was cold.  Snow, I said, and the goddamn wind.  But it was more. In an instinct, I turned on the stove, heating the pan.  Pointedly, resolutely tossing in the greens, torn leaf after torn leaf, inhaling the fresh metallic goodness—grass in the dead of winter.   Icy water submerging the leaves, the stems, the veins, promising the liquor to come—but hours yet.  The acrid pungency of malt vinegar, brining the water as it leaped hand-in-hand into the pot with the applewood-smoked bacon.  There they brewed, collaborated, co-mingled, breathing their essence into my house of dreams and monsters. Pushing back the headwinds of doubt, of fear, of loathing. 

The shadow monster won yesterday.  But today, it’s no match for goodness, for greens borne of love and tradition.  And let’s not forget the pot liquor.