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Daddy was an even brew of coal and sweat
except on Sunday mornings
when his skin radiated a magical mixture
of Brut and Dawn dishwashing liquid
and his suit was fried chicken
from afternoon potlucks that we never skipped
regardless of how late we arrived for the service
but no one ever noticed, or at least never mentioned
because Daddy was second popular only to Jesus
and though, Ms. Edwards, who was sour milk and chalk dust,
tried to teach her entire first grade Sunday School class
that God doesn’t get jealous,
I had an inkling that sometimes
He’d get a bit green with my daddy
when the twinkle that popped out the corner
of daddy’s baby blues would make all the ladies’
knees wriggle underneath them
to the point that their beehive hairdos
looked quite a bit more like disheveled honeycomb
But he would always tell me
that Mama could resist his charms
like nobody else ever even tried
and she could send knees shuffling and preacher’s blushing
with little more than coy glances
and a slight shift of her bangs
And she’s the only one I’ve ever known
that could run gray streams down ebony dusted cheekbones
making heavy baby blue’s look as if they were melting
on the knees of that single fried chicken smelling suit
as he’d lean his forehead on Mama’s headstone
and trace her last year and my first
and I would hold his shoulder
squeezing the best I knew how
all the while, inhaling Mama
as if her smell would change someday
yet knowing, deep down
that she’d always be McIntosh Apple to me
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