The House on Moscow Street

    It's the ragged¹ source of memory，

    a tarpaper-shingled bungalow²

    whose floors tilt³ toward the porch，

    whose back yard ends abruptly⁴

    in a weedy ravine. Nothing special：

    a chain of three bedrooms

    and a long side porch turned parlor⁵

    where my great-grandfather， Pomp， smoked

    every evening over the news，

    a long sunny kitchen

    where Annie， his wife，

    measured cornmeal，

    dreaming through the window

    across the ravine and up to Shelby Hill

    where she had borne their spirited，

    high-yellow brood.

    In the middle bedroom's hard，

    high antique double bed，

    the ghost of Aunt Jane，

    the laundress

    who bought the house in 1872，

    though I call with all my voices，

    does not appear.

    Nor does Pomp's ghost，

    with whom one of my cousins believes

    she once had a long and intimate

    unspoken midnight talk.

    He told her， though they'd never met，

    that he loved her； promised

    her raw widowhood would heal

    without leaving a scar.

    The conveniences in an enclosed corner

    of the slant-floored back side porch

    were the first indoor plumbing⁶ in town.

    Aunt Jane put them in，

    incurring⁷ the wrath⁸ of the woman

    who lived in the big house next door.

    Aunt Jane left the house

    to Annie， whose mother she had known

    as a slave on the plantation⁹，

    so Annie and Pomp could move their children

    into town， down off Shelby Hill.

    My grandmother， her brother， and five sisters

    watched their faces change slowly

    in the oval mirror on the wall outside the door

    into teachers' faces， golden with respect.

    Here Geneva， the randy sister，

    damned their colleges，

    daubing her quicksilver breasts

    with gifts of perfume.

    As much as love，

    as much as a visit

    to the grave of a known ancestor，

    the homeplace moves me not to silence

    but the righteous， praise Jesus song：

    Oh， catfish¹⁰ and turnip¹¹ greens，

    hot-water cornbread and grits¹².

    Oh， musty， much-underlined Bibles；

    generations lost to be found，

    to be found.