This poem was first published in the online edition of New Texas: Journal of Literature and Culture (2019). Many thanks to the editors, Dr. Francine Richter, et al.for choosing it. Listen to me read the poem here (find text below):

As a child, I adored this woman, my great-grandmother. The only way I ever really knew her was with dementia, or what was then called “senility.” I don’t think she knew me or recognized me, as she rarely interacted with anyone around her, living in her own world. But something in my childhood mind respected her and held her in great awe, her ever-presence; her thin-blue skin; her white, white hair and the way she spoke aloud for everyone to hear, a preacher, preaching what was left of her mind. Sometimes, I think of her part in birthing me: her womb carrying my mother’s mother with my grandmother’s eggs already present in her developing fetus, eggs that would become my mother. How her holding on meant survival for all of us. At times when I am feeling a bit sorry for myself, I think of her tenacity, the hardships she endured, the obstacles she overcame and how, my genes are her genes and that, if for no other reason, is why I too have all I need to persevere.

bone country

— for Mary Ann

i sit in your rocking chair

thinking what it must
have been like to be you

—great-grandmother

braided white hair
cane-backed poddy-chair
—its porcelain pot

how cold it was 
when i sat there

my bottom     bare
as my dangling feet

the thinker      thinking

      ~

—your mind      a memory

you rocked on the back porch
in this chair      holding 

the good book      
in your lap—upside down

your haunting voice      reciting
what you had not forgotten

your thin      thin fingers 
skimming the onion skin

your last years      passing

      ~

on a farm in east texas
your daughter—your mother   now
how we made butter in the jar she gave me:

shake it real hard
don’t stop

you’ll see the butter
curdle up

she said

how we milked the cow
my uncle and i

her soft teats in my small hand
his gentle coaxing      the smell

of hay      how the milk was warm

      ~

no water       ran through 
your house      grandmother

but at the kitchen sink
—a hand pump

a porcelain pitcher and
a bowl in the wash room

how your daughter drew water 
from the well      a deep

black hole

      i was afraid of falling

      ~

how she bathed me:
     outside      
     black iron pot
     warm water from the fire

pouring over my skin

how she bathed you
sweet scent of magnolias
     blooming

      ~

when i was born 
they brought me to you

that’s the whitest child
i’ve ever seen
you said

grandmother      they say:

you had a stroke and the doctors
said you’d never walk again
yes      i will    
you said      & you did

you used to come in from the garden
grinning      smelling of garlic
white whisps of your long hair
trailing in the breeze behind you

i can see you now

& when your husband wanted to move
one more time      for everyone’s good

you said:      no
this      is my home

      ~

when the six men carried your casket
down the center isle of the country church
to the graveyard next door

i learned of dying
& of letting go

      ~

now i sit in your rocking chair
my last years      passing

thinking what it must
have been like to be you

you       who birthed five girls
and a boy who died too young
on a farm in east texas

how you held on

& how this place came to be
my bone country

because you 
said so

~(c) d. ellis phelps