Vessel - Parneshia Jones

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got so many letters!

      Lots of great letters, Mary!

      It’s got a P, Mary, a P!

      P, like princess. A, R,

      Mary, R, like Roll-ups.

      A, Mary, two of them,

      like two angels in my name.

      Mary, so sweet and easy,

      shrugged her shoulders.

      Okay, she said without hesitation.

       You’re Mary now and I’m PARNESHIA!

       PARNESHIA!

       My name is PAR-NE-SHIA!

      I watched her twirl about

      shouting my name, claiming it,

      and a sense of panic came over me.

      I want Parneshia,

      my nine-letter riddle,

      my PARNESHI and that last A,

      the one I always wrote sloppy

      because I never thought it

      was as important as the first.

       No! My name is PARNESHIA.

      My Mama gave it to me!

       It’s mine and you can’t have it, Mary!

      Mary, hands on hips, skirt twisted,

      chocolate milk stained to her top lip,

       Okay. Let’s go on the swings.

      Mary, so sweet and easy;

      so deserving of her short, sweet name.

       PARNESHIA

      I draw the last A,

      make it count and stare

      at my moniker: long, complicated,

      hardly sweet, but mine.

       for Evanston

      We came with histories,

      planted centennial stories along freshwater coasts.

      An earthly heaven of emerald lagoons

      and godly oaks shadow the chiseled

      trails of our arrival.

      We are the northern folktales.

      Copper-back ancestors, with cotton-tipped,

      woodcutter hands—

      the heirlooms that built this landscape of jubilant

      churches and miniature châteaus.

      A harvest of migrating hearts

      tell our way back when.

      We are porch stories, buttermilk aprons,

      lovers of Sundays and sailboats.

      Land of dew-winged cardinals with chandelier

      forests preserves our pioneers and preachers.

      We are the long grass and anxious wind,

      the generations, speaking softly, between

      the lines of history.

       for Mary Ella Starling

      Rain falls softly with the slumbered

      breaths of my grandmother.

      I watch from the bedside,

      trying not to disturb dreams of

      watermelon patches and porch swings.

      I walk slowly to the door.

      The afternoon and freshly cut grass

      cools down the room and eases

      the drawl of summer.

       Don’t leave girl.

      My grandmother lifts the quilt

      sewn fifty years ago by her mother,

      signaling me to join her.

      I slide into the pocket of the quilt,

      letting my grandmother’s hands

      cradle me back to child.

      I nuzzle the crease of her neck

      scented with grandfather’s lips.

      Her hands, more delicate than tears,

      caress the roundness of my face.

       Brings back memories, doesn’t it girl.

      As a child, my feet barely touched

      her hips when she nestled me;

      now our legs knit together,

      creating a human quilt.

       Sleep with good dreams girl.

      Our eyes bow to the tranquil rain.

      The deep breaths of our slumber

      linger above us, like a prayer.

       for Papa

      Crack the seal,

      remove the cap,

      and pour your life.

      1932 Vintage, aged with

      Fedora

      Cigar

      Rose

      Red

      Walker

      Johnnie

      Nothing to prove,

      pour as slow as you want.

      Long gone are days of hurry,

      big band,

      double shots,

      back alley,

      breakfast at midnight,

      round the clock,

      round the bar,

      indigo,

      shotgun,

      shimmy,

      shake down.

      You about the quiet:

      long walks,

      easy does it,

      win some, lose some,

      close your eyes to remember.

      Your old lady flirts from heaven.

      Her purple dress, Elizabeth Taylor wig—

      skin the color of buttercream;

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