tobacco blossoms

and the pulled-tight twine

poems by Nancy Tripp King

88 pages, $15 ISBN 1-930907-30-3

Article by Timmi Toler of the Jacksonville Daily News, March 7, 2004

---

WOMAN’S WORK

 

Too short to reach the looping-horse
I stood on an upside-down Pepsi crate,
played at filling tobacco sticks
with dog-fennel stalks,
dried corn shucks,
anything that would hang,
pretending it was tobacco;
practicing
to get the flip of my wrist right,
the twist of the twine tight,
and when it was full,
poking that stick straight up,
balancing it steady and praying
it wouldn’t slide.

Summer, Daddy put me looping sand-lugs.
Bought me a tin box of Band-Aids
to pad my fingers,
the bend of my hand,
any place the wrapped-around-twine might rub,
and I was careful,
until pushed by the handers
flapping their bundles, fast and steady,
and if theirs wasn’t soon taken,
shaken
as only women who’ve been there can do.

The pulled-tight twine
edged under the wrinkling tape,
finally pulling one end loose,
and without breaking rhythm,
I’d flick my hand,
shake free what was left clinging,
tie off the stick I’d filled,
and while stooping for another,
sneak a glance at my hand,
at the blisters swelling hard and tender,
until they ripped and bled.

---

A LESSON WORTH REMEMBERING

 

Mama says there’s not much difference
between a husband and dough;
that there’s a certain feel when it’s right
or when it needs to be worked some more.

She says biscuits, kneaded too much, won’t rise,
making them weigh heavy on the tongue,
no matter how hot the oven they were in;
but that pastry is different
and must be toughened enough
to stay together
when it’s dropped into a boiling pot
with an old rooster. She says
if dough’s not ready you can tell
the minute you start rolling:
it will break apart,
needing
to be gathered back into a ball
and worked some more—
flattened and folded and pressed—
forcing you, when you start rolling again,
to slam the pin down hard, and then,
to keep holding that pressure.

---

AFFLICTIONS

 

For many long winters after my aunt came to visit
I thought I’d go deaf like her
and end up in some sanatorium,
visiting relatives on the weekend,
assuring them I was cured of tuberculosis,
unable to hear them in the kitchen
whispering to put my plate and glass and fork
over to the side to be scalded
when I wasn’t looking.

Daddy said TB was catching,
and you’d know if you got it
’cause there’d be blood when you cough.

My aunt never again came back to visit.

And I’d see Daddy,
when he thought no one was looking,
pull out his handkerchief,
cough,
look,
put it back.

Once in a fried chicken thigh
I found blood down near the bone,
and even to this day, I’ll poke deep,
searching,
afraid I’ll find what I’m looking for.