SOUTHSIDE

Every apartment and house in the dirty city holds particles of soot. Redolence of Birmingham’s putrid steel mill and exhaust fumes from vehicles speeding through the streets of southside.

Mae's cooking temporarily masks carious smells. Her large, comfortable body stands over a sweltering stove and her face drips with sweat.

Grandaddy is making pepper sauce; it's fiery bite comparable to the summer heat. His tall lean form is in contrast to my grandmother's full figure.

Thirst cries out and is met by tap water poured into colorful aluminum cups. That “chalk on a blackboard” feeling against sensitive teeth.

From open windows, we hear sounds of  "The Hummingbird", a southern passenger train. It’s’ whistle extending over a sea of gray clouds.

The apartment has one rusty bathroom for a family of five. Soap and stale perfume are thick with the scent of declining years. Face powder with its' dry smell, is cracked like desert sand.

Now I contemplate southside.  1125 South 22nd Street calls to me in dreams.

Janet Parker August, 2024