Barbecue Villanelle by Jacqueline Allen Trimble

Each year we throw a family barbecue.

They pile like thirsty sinners from their cars

to have a little taste of Dad’s home brew.

The pig is slain. The pit is dug.  A few 

tend fire all night. Their stories jab and spar.

Each year we throw a family barbecue.

Someone will sing before the night is through.

Chicken ain’t nothing but a bird, his bar.

He’s had a little taste of Dad’s home brew.

The cards and accusations fly on cue.

The smack talk is so loud it hits the stars.

Each year we throw a family barbecue.

And soon the fighting starts (ain’t nothing new).

The past is never past. It’s so bizarre.

By now they’re halfway through my dad’s home brew.

Come morning Mom will wake the dozing crew.

Repentant, they will dine. The perfect char!

Each year we throw a family barbecue

and have a little taste of Dad’s home brew.

A Psalm of Praise for the Funeral Processional by Jacqueline Allen Trimble

Praise for the hands that bring the water, the blessed water,

case after case, hands as holy as John the Baptist’s and as healing. 

Let our parched throats be baptized in the cooling streams. 

Praise for the colas, teas and lemonades touched with lavender

or mint picked from home-grown gardens. Praise for the wine,

the muscadine, harvested and fermented with care. Come, 

sip with us in silence. Let your work of hands and days

be a balm for our sorrow. 

Praise for the culinary stewards, practiced in rituals of death.

They comfort us with gifts, tightly wrapped in foil and labeled. 

This is for after. These are the promises of the saints erecting

bulwarks in freezers of the bereaved. 

Praise for the non-cooks with their paper goods or plastic ware, 

restaurant gift cards, flowers plucked at the grocery store

then lovingly arranged in a cherished vase or coffee can. 

These are the pure of heart. Let their offerings keep us 

from the market with satiety and delight.

Praise for the cut up cantaloupe and watermelon, the grapes, deep blue, 

red, and green, the hands of bananas, the sweet cool of kiwi. 

Praise for every store-bought cookie, every homemade cake and pie, 

for every chicken, roasted or fried, every sandwich platter 

and frozen casserole, every pot of collards or squash or stew. 

Praise for our bowl overrun with communal bounty,

for every catered dinner, family breakfast brought to our door

hot and ready to be taken. Let sustenance overshadow this misery.

Praise for the ones who make the repast on the hardest day of our lives.

They spread the table before us in the presence of our grief, 

fill us with all that is good, right and delicious. Their hands anoint us 

with olive oil, overflow our plates, slake our loss.

Praise for all the mouths brimming with prayer. Let them be blessed.

Let them bless this house, this family, this food. Let us take and feast 

on this love persisting like the grief in our hearts.

Aunt Mae Supervises My Chicken Frying by Jacqueline Allen Trimble

After Ashley Jones

: and is reminding me cast iron and lard are God’s gifts

: quips, when I say lard is bad for you, she is healthy as a horse and full of lard 

: and wonders if I seasoned the buttermilk well enough

: if I added enough onion salt and garlic because Baby Girl, flour has no flavor

: is reminding me marinade is key to moist chicken

: is instructing me on the finer points of dredging 

: is remarking Panko violates Southern chicken law 

            (though there is no Panko in sight)

: is saying she doesn’t see any pepper in that flour

: is saying the flame is too high

: is emphasizing the difference between golden and burnt 

: is noting if I cook it too fast it will be raw on the inside and inedible

: and I am going into the bathroom to take a breath and recenter myself

: and catch her adjusting the burner when I come out of the bathroom

: and I am thinking things I can say to my great aunt only with my eyes

: and she is throwing up her hands with It ain’t my chicken 

: and whispering loudly to my husband Or her grandma’s 

: then praising God her sister never lived to eat a raw, unseasoned version 

            of our family’s sacred chicken recipe 

: and I am wondering why I didn’t go to the drive through

: as I place hot chicken on paper towels then a platter

: and finish it with a little Lawry’s

: and set the platter next to the rice and green beans and biscuits

: and smiling, smiling, smiling as Aunt Mae eats her third piece sans lard

: until she asks me Why are these biscuits so dry?

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