Argo Starch

                              for Rudy Lewis

                By  Mary E. Weems

I ain’t thought about Argo starch

in forever, the cracked-chalk looking delicacy

granny used to turn into crisp white sheets, and grandpa’s

shirts when mama’d let us visit the heaven

of their house for a weekend.

Granny was a clean-neat-freak. Quarters jumped out

of piggy banks to bounce on the beds she made, with 4-fold

corners, the beds she taught me to make ignoring me when I said

we’d just be back in them in 12 hours.

Granny grew up when women had to heat their irons

on coal stoves, would tell me stories about corncobs

to wipe behinds, re-washing her mama’s walls at 3 o’clock

in the morning—if a dirt spot was discovered during

late night chore inspections.

She never knew I knew she ate starch, but there

I’d be hiding behind the stove, when she took

a break from pressing clothes—she crunching

her starch at the table, me chewing mine softly

between repeating to myself over and over

I love you sweetie pie.

Back then die was just a word I connected

with Jesus and the resurrection granny believed

in—My crying at night after repeating Now I

lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul

to keep—about how I feared losing her not my soul.

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