Witness Protection Program

Husband dead, blackouts ambushing, 
my mother migrated to southeast Florida, 
condo-packed home to Jews, 
Catholics, Hispanics and pushy Yankees.
A train wreck from soft southern accents,
magnolias, bi-monthly fellowship tables
rump sprung with fried chicken and pie.

I stood as the only unbroken link
in her crushed chain to before,
felt helpless to make it all right.

Augusta, she introduced herself
to these strangers who'd never known her 
as tomboy Gus, motherless Gus at thirteen 
who hand cranked her father's Model T 
to go back road riding with friends.
They hadn't known Garbo-lookalike Gus
who taught their kids , sang in the church choir, 
or served coffee from the pink and green 
chocolate set that sat on her dead mother's sideboard
for all those years before. 

She wrapped herself tight in this new name
before the cock could crow, 
betraying ripped roots still clenched
in her whitened, shaking hands.




Pris Campbell
©2010

Published in The Dead Mule Spring 2012



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