Listen to Hayes Davis read this poem.

James Earl Jones at five

I.

He is another child who hears more than adults believe.
In 1936 Arkabutla’s humid night, heavy with tree frogs and crickets 

Maggie—the grandmother James will later call Mama—
and Ruth, who birthed him, singe the air with argument: 

Ruth wants to leave for the Delta with Deacon Cummings’s son. 
Day labor, scarce in this sleepy county, fills Mississippi pockets, 

but Maggie has heard migrant workers get Goofer Dust
with their tools, cocaine that speeds their hands after lunch. 

Her devotion, a fervor almost Pentecostal, distrusts 
even the deacon’s son, and won’t abide that Goofer Dust. 

Eyes drooping, ears riveted, James hears wisdom in Maggie’s words 
before he finally sleeps, before their heated voices greet sunrise.

II.

Two days later, suitcase by the door, catfish sandwich
in a paper bag, Ruth asks James one more time

to come with her, then asks again. His small eyes water,
his jaw trembles, he silently shakes his head.

III.

When James visits Memphis, they share rice for breakfast, 
lunch, and dinner, sometimes with bits of egg or meat. 

They curl together in a bed at night, his hands search inside 
her nightgown for softness, the breasts and milk he vaguely remembers. 

The word “Mommy” forms on his lips—he tries to push it out, 
make it real, but when she wakes and asks, “What’s wrong, 

what do you want?” He says nothing, and she sleeps again.

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