Janie Speaks
Charles Suddeth
She was single, past forty,
Baggy dresses, grey hair,
Seldom talked, never smiled,
Attended Mom’s church.
She came for Sunday dinner,
Our kitchen table stacked high,
Dad said grace, we dug in,
Chomping, lip smacking, chewing.
Janie crammed her mouth,
Roast beef, mashed potatoes.
She grunted and quit eating,
Her kitchen knife hit the floor.
“I’m pregnant,” she mumbled.
Dad spit coffee on his tie.
“That’s nice,” muttered Mom,
Famous for her rages.
Janie gulped iced tea,
“I’m a God-fearing woman,
I ain’t been with no man,
I can’t lie to God.”
Dad buttered his cornbread,
Mom kept pouring gravy,
It flowed onto her lap,
I nibbled, gawked, grinned.
Janie burped a few times,
“It must have been that soup,
That greasy pinto bean soup,
I sure didn’t cook it.”
Dad grabbed his napkin,
Mom served apple pie,
I didn’t dare speak,
Never saw Janie again.
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