C. T. Suddeth

Janie Speaks

Charles Suddeth

She was single, way past forty,

Baggy dresses, silver-grey hair,

Seldom talked, never smiled,

Went to prayer meetings with Mom.

She came once for Sunday dinner,

Our dining table stacked high,

Dad said grace, and we dug in,

Chomping, lip smacking, chewing.

Janie shoved it in like she was starved,

Roast beef, mashed potatoes, red-eye gravy.

She grunted once and quit eating,

Her kitchen knife clanged onto the floor.

“I’m in a family way,” she mumbled.

Dad coughed and spit coffee on his tie.

“That’s really good,” muttered Mom,

Famous for her terrible rages.

Janie gulped her iced tea down,

“I’m a real God-fearing woman,

I ain’t never been with a man,

I can’t lie to Almighty God.”

Dad buttered his cornbread again,

Eyes hard, Mom poured gravy

Until it flowed onto her lap,

I nibbled, gawked, dared a grin.

Janie belched like a windstorm,

“It must have been that old soup,

Those greasy pinto beans and ramps,

I guarantee I didn’t cook it.”

Dad stuck a napkin over his face,

Mom stood and served apple pie,

I didn’t speak or look up or breathe,

Never saw Janie again.