Sweet Tea

As I drink my sweet tea,

I remember my Southern upbringing.

Running barefoot through the fields

with my half-naked cousins

and trying to avoid getting a whooping

for playing in the mud.

I remember Thanksgiving

at Momma G’s house,

where we enjoyed hearty turkey

and the most delectable green beans.

I remember how bad things got

when Aunt Renee died.

I remember my mother’s boyfriend

forcing me to be the house slave.

I remember fighting with my cousins

and feeling so alone.

I remember Momma fighting with Uncle Tommy

and us moving away

to some New England, suburban bullshit.

I remember how the sweet tea

became bitter for a long time.