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O Tobacco
by Crystal Wilkinson
You are a Kentucky tiller's livelihood.
You were school clothes in August
the turkey at Thanksgiving
Christmas
with all the trimmings.
I close my eyes
see you tall
stately green
lined up in rows.
See sweat seeping
through Granddaddy's shirt
as he fathered you first.
You were protected by him
sometimes even more
than any other thing
that rooted in our earth.
Just like family you were
coddled
cuddled
coaxed
into making him proud.
Spread out for miles
you were the only
pretty thing
he knew.
When I think of you
at the edge of winter,
I see you, brown, wrinkled
just like Granddaddy's skin.
A ten-year old me
plays in the shadows
of the stripping room
the wood stove burns
calloused hands twist
through the length
of your leaves.
Granddaddy smiles
nods at me when he
thinks I'm not looking.
You are pretty
and braided
lined up in rows
like a room full of
brown girls
with skirts hooped out
for dancing.
Reprinted with permission from the poet.
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