Red-checkered cloth flappin’
in the gust waves the family over
as surely as Gaga’s calls for Will-ard.

Papa was a Church of God minister,
but Gaga was his Archangel.
His guardian at the gate during his sweet

hour of prayer, his darling bride,
and his comforter in times of need.
Even through times of desperation

her food was her love.
She would be cooking before church,
after church, and sometimes during

(although we weren’t far from the house.)
Her aprons were functional rather than fashion,
her hair– permed, practical, and short–

never in the food!
She seldom wrote down her recipes,
or if she did, there was just a little something missing

not maliciously but naturally–
it’s not like she needed to measure
anything.

She alone prepared the feast
and she could turn this meal out in her sleep.
Her cookin was a dance I loved to watch–

at least until I was expelled by
that oven of a kitchen in August.
Today’s picnics are brought by

KFC or gas station chicken strips.
Gaga would never approve of the Apple
Market usurping her reign.

Nobody ate until Papa said grace
though, but then the picnic began.
Our reverence never waivered for the food.

The scald on her heaping piles of fried chicken
with extra drumsticks. The rivers of Land o’ lakes
butter pooling in the valleys of tall mashed potato

mountains– two bowls– one for us and one for my dad
(although sometimes his were fried
and served in the cast iron.)

Two kinds of tomatoes also: fried green that everyone
had already sampled- despite Gaga’s fussin
and thick sliced Heirloom. Corn on the cob,

green beans, watermelon, and cucumbers
straight from the garden– the last brinin’
in vinegar and sugar to cut the richness of the food–

and, finally, corn bread muffins.
At the “Amen,” nothing went to waste,
and, for Gaga, we are eternally thankful.