Vox Populi
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Michael Simms: The Pecan Grove
Zelphia Irene Slavens Cook (1904-1983)
Melvin Arlin Cook (1905-1992)
.
Shadow of the pecan tree sways
on the rusty screen. The kitchen sink
has been scrubbed until black pits
shine in the cracked porcelain.
The Irish-Cherokee girl shells pecans
until her fingers bleed, a bead
of sweat lingers on the ball
of her nose, hesitates and falls
on the flattened dough of pie shell.
She is the salt that seasons, the soda
that leavens, the rolling pin that pushed
me into place. I imagine her in heaven
making pies – cherry, chocolate, peach, pecan,
mincemeat, lemon (leave the seeds in
so they’ll know it’s real)
Pastries swollen like moons orbiting the holiday.
Grandmother of my sorrow, grandmother
of my anger
grandmother
of the hickory switch, fig tree,
peach tree, cigarettes and coffee
the station wagon is leaving the driveway
a last time, children piled high
on blankets, a long sleep home
*
Never a chance to say goodbye
to say how much I loved that boy
who was my grandfather
Mr. Cook his wife called him
as if he was all growed up
his daughters despised him
He taught me how to crack
two pecans in a bare hand
how to spit and cuss like a man
how to cheat at solitaire
Gallivantin’ around town
wasting money with his buddies
he taught me
the geometry of carpentry
the mysteries
of plumbing, told me
dirty jokes
He spent his daughters’ college fund
on country club dues
so his daughters refused
to say a prayer over his body
Those four tight-lipped matrons
shipped off his body
a humanitarian donation
They put him on a stainless-steel table
sliced him from the hollow
of his throat
to the swell of his groin
They pulled out heart
liver, spleen
like you’d dump a bag
of groceries
I didn’t see it
I wasn’t there
I wasn’t anywhere near
Texas Baylor Medical School
I was in Pittsburgh
Where my wife was making a wreath
of rowan and hemlock and dahlias
We went to the Point
where two rivers merge
and flow into another life
We threw the wreath
in the waters
and my small son
said goodbye Daddy Cook
and we watched the wreath
caught in two currents
floating, not moving
not moving at all
we went home
to our good life
Copyright 2021 Michael Simms. From Nightjar (Ragged Sky, 2021).
Michael Simms is the founding editor of Vox Populi. His books include American Ash (Ragged Sky, 2020)
Photograph by Renee Wallace
Vox Populi 
Beautiful work, Michael. A well-painted portrait.
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Thank you, Mary!
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This is simply beautiful.
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Thank you, John!
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Good indeed.
Reminds me of Mr. Fadhel Cook (Tabbahk , in Arabic). He taught the english class at the university of Aleppo. Introduced me to few Americans working with ICARDA international.
He edited Tale of Two Cities for Syrian Schools. Published over some 20 years in hundred of thousands of copies. Finally he applied for a post in Britain to flee the war. But was not accepted. Instead he lost his villa in Aleppo and found a little flat above a hostel.
The heart beats…..
Another warm example fro mr. Simms.
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Thanks for this tale, Saleh!
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very powerful
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Thank you!
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love these.
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Thanks, Maryfrances!
>
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I can SEE them! I loved re-reading that poem, Michael. I love that “Mr.Cook”! And oh, those miffed sisters…
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Thanks, Laure-Anne. Praise for my poetry from you is golden. You have such a gift.
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Yes. “We went home to our good life” I feel that way almost every day and wonder how I can.
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Yes, Eva and I have a very good life, although the world seems to be crumbling around us.
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Wonderful.
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Thanks, Edison!
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Thank-you Michael for this important tear of a poem.
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Thanks, Giulio!
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This is wonderful, Michael. Thank you.
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Thanks, David!
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Lovely poem!
Clear as this chilly morning sky will be in half an hour. Time for clarity.
Thankyou
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Thanks, Sean!
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