Down South
an acrostic tribute to where I grew up
Sundays after church, when it be rainin’ you know hole-
in-the-wall places serve the best food
like all the grandmothers in there cookin’—
earthy collard greens and soul food made with
no recipe and seasoned until the ancestors said stop
‘cause that’s how you reach ambrosia for those first few seconds,
everyone quiet, full mouths just a’chewin’
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This poem is an entry to Vocal's acrostic challenge:
Like it? Check out other entries of mine!
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
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