A POEM A DAY

I buy five pounds of catfish for Good Friday at grandma’s house.
Five minutes away from the promise land, my mom
called me and placed an order for more catfish. I stop at H-E-B
on a sunny Friday afternoon. I finesse the lines, find the filets
and explain to the kind worker that my grandma has run out of catfish on Good Friday.

At first I order three pounds, and
as the filets fill the bag like a riverbed, I think,
better make it five pounds. Five pounds ought to do it.
Five minutes later, I’m outside the store with gold.
My mother has five sons and I’m the middle one.

All five of my senses step into the kitchen.
My grandma shows me how she prepares
the fish before the fry.
Hushpuppies and French fries line the counter,
protected by paper towels and plates.

My grandma carries a cast iron pan out of the pantry
like a hammer. We lower catfish covered in cornmeal
into the oil, and the seconds sizzle by. Five years ago,
I was not frying catfish in my grandmother’s kitchen
on Good Friday. I’ve stood in this kitchen since I was a boy.

And when I look at the clock,
Mateo and Mama are five minutes away.
I think about asking Mateo for a high five when he arrives,
and watching his five fingers rise to meet mine,
my hands still covered in cornmeal.