Appalachian Mother

Old stories are shared
between tater and mater slicing,
fragmented memories, family
secrets retold—some true.

Great Aunt Beatrice killed
a bear in the holler
while leaving the outhouse
two days before Christmas,
three days before the children
would have starved to death.

The bear, a gift from God—
the loaded black-powder rifle
appeared in her hands
as the bear charged her
from the woods.

There were whispers about incest
and social security money,
moonshine deliveries,
cures for every disease
up there on the hill—
and how only Edith knows
the plants to gather;
and how she won’t share the knowledge
with anyone but an Appalachian
mother, and only just once
before she dies.

My mother still knew the word
to make a man fall in love,
something a woman whispers
into the ear of a man,
something he can’t remember
after being rendered helpless
to resist—the word
that brings forth children.

She died in Indiana,
my Appalachian mother,
taking some of the secrets
with her. She is buried
near Notre Dame, far from
the family graveyard—
where she would have been buried
next to her racist sister
God bless her soul
and bootlegging father,
God bless his soul
if only she hadn’t whispered the word.
If only she hadn’t whispered the word.