The packhouse bulging in early September,
my mother takes over, checking our work
as we strip the tobacco leaves off the sticks
they’d been lashed to & cured on,
each length of twine unstrung by hand
like pulling out stitches, each leaf laid
on a big cardboard mold like her springform
cake pan, the bundles stuffed into burlap sheets
tied off at the top like a hobo’s sack. 

On breaks over Sun Drop or Nehi Grape,
Mama uses loops of castoff twine
to teach us the old cat’s cradle tricks:
Crow’s Feet, Cut Your Head Off, Fish in a Dish
& my favorite, Jacob’s Ladder—twelve
quick motions, ring-finger-middle-finger-thumb,
a flourish at the end & there: heaven’s
rickety staircase, my hands on the banister,
at the top of it my inheritance.