Ode to Okra by Kevin Young

I like okry cause
it slips, said my old cousin
famously, & I agree—
all the more filled with awe at all

you can do.  Wayward
uncle, you grew up like a weed
yet were so much my age I called
you brother—like an eye
or early autumn you stay

red around the edges
& still green
at the same time. Tender
yet prickly, you gave gifts
whenever we needed them most—

visited each summer & lingered
much too long, mooching
your way through.
Though some nights I hated you
to us, & yourself, you were true—

stayed stewed,
never fried—the neighborhood
drunk, turned belligerent
& too tough
if ignored. Still

you weep when stirred,
make a gumbo worth
fasting for. Seventh son,
pilgrim, you once were a slave
I heard, a language

smuggled here in our hair
to teach us home
& what freedom
wasn't. In dusk
I've seen my father

cut you down—you, who
we prayed over each night
making sure, small
steady star, just for you
we saved plenty room.  

from Dear Darkness: Poems by Kevin Young (Knopf, 2008)

Comments

[Kathryn Milam]

The deliciousness of that vegetable, roasted in the oven with a little sea salt and olive oil, is enough to distract you from the concrete memories of an uncle who deserves much more than an upscale obliteration of slip, slidin' okra. What a marvelous ode to this lowly Southern delicacy.

[Diann Blakely]

"Lowly"? Not at all. But I hope Mr. Lehman, Mr. Young (who edited this year's BEST AMERICAN POETRY anthology itself), and Ms. Trethewey had a Big Time this past weekend, some advance details about which I posted on the "Notes on the State of Poetry" page on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/groups/113987608638143/?id=244753348894901&notif_t=group_activity

[Herbert Guerry]

Roy Blount, Jr.'s "Song to Okra" is far superior.