I wrote this poem in 1992 after a summer spent working in a medical clinic in Marks, Mississippi. The opportunity to learn about the health and lives of the people in Marks and the surrounding communities extended well beyond the walls of the clinic. A languid afternoon sitting with senior citizens at the fishing hole or calling bingo in the community center was time well spent indeed.
I had the privilege of meeting Ms. Mabel Ross, a retired schoolteacher who was outspoken, welcoming, and well into her nineties. We corresponded after I left to return for the second year of medical school. She wrote to me in shaky but even script and, although she had very limited material possessions, always included a crumpled one-dollar bill.
I am humbled and grateful to have known Mabel and the people of this community.
Miss Mabel is frying catfish—
I can hear her singing
above the spit and spatter
of grease.
I wait at her table
for catfish and conversation—
stitched together like a quilt,
spread before me as a feast.
She cuts me some cornbread
and dips it in words
salty with the sweat of cotton fields,
sweet with the joy of children,
sharp with the struggle to speak her truth.
She presses my hand to her wrinkled face,
whispers, Listen to your grandmama—
listen to what I say.
Ninety years of wisdom linger
heavy in the Delta air,
searching for a place to settle
in this child’s soul.
I hope that she will understand
the young woman’s voice
still learning to speak
saying simply,
Thank you— so much
for lunch.
