For weeks I have waited
for a day without death
or doubt. Instead
the sky set afire
or the flood
filling my face.
A stubborn drain
nothing can fix.
Every day death.
Every morning death
& every night
& evening
And each hour
a kind of winter—
all weather
is unkind. Too
hot, or cold
that creeps the bones.
Father, your face
a faith
I can no longer see.
Across the street
a dying, yet
still-standing tree.
So why not
make a soup
of what’s left? Why
not boil & chop
something outside
the mind—let us
welcome winter
for a few hours, even
in summer. Some
say Gumbo
starts with file
or with roux, begins
with flour & water
making sure
not to burn. I know Gumbo
starts with sorrow—
with hands that cannot wait
but must—with okra
& a slow boil
& things that cannot
be taught, like grace.
Done right,
Gumbo lasts for days.
Done right, it will feed
you & not let go.
Like grief
you can eat & eat
& still plenty
left. Food
of the saints,
Gumbo will outlast
even us—like pity,
you will curse it
& still hope
for the wing
of chicken bobbed
up from below.
Like God
Gumbo is hard
to get right
& I don’t bother
asking for it outside
my mother’s house.
Like life, there’s no one
way to do it,
& a hundred ways,
from here to Sunday,
to get it dead wrong.
Save all the songs.
I know none,
even this, that will
bring a father
back to his son.
Blood is thicker
than water under
any bridge
& Gumbo thicker
than that. It was
my father’s mother
who taught mine how
to stir its dark mirror—
now it is me
who wishes to plumb
its secret
depths. Black
Angel, Madonna
of the Shadows,
Hail Mary strong
& dark as dirt,
Gumbo’s scent fills
this house like silence
& tells me everything
has an afterlife, given
enough time & the right
touch. You need
okra, sausage, bones
of a bird, an entire
onion cut open
& wept over, stirring
cayenne in, till the end
burns the throat—
till we can amen
& pretend
such fiery
mercy is all we know.
Kevin Young’s Ode to Gumbo in Dear Darkness