Poetry by Lukas Flippo

Lukas Flippo is a writer and photographer from rural Mississippi currently living in New York City on a sabbatical from the American South. As the first person in his family to attend college, he graduated from Yale University with a degree in American Studies and Journalism. At Yale, he edited the Yale Daily News and The New Journal. His multimedia work has appeared in publications including the New York Times, The Washington Post, and TIME Magazine.

My Mom, She Was a Superstitious Woman

My Mom,
She was a superstitious woman.
7-years-old, her sister-to-be died in the stall
of the JC Penney’s department store bathroom,
In Jackson, Mississippi.
A piece of tissue flushed down the drain.

Every dinner plate after, she left a bite behind.

Sunday evenings,
Church night,
Her father,
My grandfather,
Slid over and finished off her meal
When she wasn’t looking.

Silent.

My Mom would smile to the stars from
the window above the kitchen sink,
Hands drowned in soapy water.

Her aunt loved to drive.
Late shift for grandmother at the garment factory,
She would pick my mom up from elementary school,
East they would ride,
Vibration, faded brown asphalt,
My Mom’s snore floating in the backseat AC

Alabama State Line, smooth,
She woke up,
“I kidnapped you!”
A deep belly laugh,
Saucer eyes and slow rubs,

That Maybelle,
She has no sense,
My grandfather cursed the pebbles in the
gravel driveway
Blue by moonlight.

16-years-old,
First license,
Two years after Maybelle’s dead and gone,
Bridge in the windshield,

My mom looked in the rearview mirror,
To catch the town at sunset.

The wood plant smoke,
The lone blinking red light,
The amber sky.

But there she was,
Maybelle,
Back seat.
An angel scream,
STOP.

Four wheels against the median weeds,
Face white as a sheet,
Lean forward, squint,
A spiderweb of cracks in the asphalt.

Another car flies past, paying no attention,
Concrete plummets into the river.

Every drive since, she made us leave a
spot in the backseat empty, just in case.
No exceptions,
After ball practice, my two friends didn’t
have a ride. The backseat fit three,
So she took the two,
And made me walk.

In our living room,
A piano.

Light brown oak, red-felt covered bench
pushed up underneath,
To its side, a wicker rocking chair,
A knife balancing on the webbed seat.

On top of the piano, tally marks.
Sitting next to her after lessons, my
grandfather would rock in the chair,
After the final note landed perfectly,
He took knife to wood,
Another song learned.

Late at night, after everyone had gone
to bed, I would slip downstairs,
And gently push a couple keys down,
Cobwebs torn apart.

As the sound snuck out, I swear to you,
The chair began to sway,
To
And fro…

Finally, the rocking horse,
Christmas Eve, my two brothers and me,
16mm footage of Christmas Eve, 1954,
When my grandfather bought that horse,
mom wearing his Cowboy hat,
Brown boots,
Holding on to the horse’s ears for dear
life while he pushed down the hind springs,
With two fingers.

When I’m dead and gone, one of you boys
will take that rocking horse, that’s
where I’ll be,
She would say,
Keep the seat clean
And
Let me rock with the children
As they come.

Thomas, a wife and kids,
Horse gallops on,
Adam, a wife and kids,
Horse gallops on,

Me.

Writing this,
A million miles, 30 years away,
East Village,
By the front door, the rusted white horse,
Orange flakes taking over the black eyes,
Its red seat still warm to the
Touch,
Even with fourth street covered in snow,
And no money for heat.

Sometimes,
When I get drunk,
I think to pull down my grandfather’s
cowboy hat from the closet,

Wipe off the dust, and
Go for a ride.

But the springs would whine.
She couldn’t bear the weight.