L E S L I E L E E D S P R I Z E
BRANDY MCKENZIE-BECKER
STRINGING BEANS
Stacy could never get it right.
He would always leave them fiber-bound
and dangerous, all the way through
the canning to the cooking and back
to our plates. We alwys knew
when Stacy had been at work.
The rest of us, cousins, would string
and shell, break and eat bushel
after bushel, the full white pails
looming like harvested moons
at our feet. We knew the stories:
if uncareful, we would choke
on our own handiwork, maybe
falling after prayer at a Thanksgiving
table, the layers of family staring,
the feasts dropping from their mouths.
I remember the way the beans would smell:
fresh, sweet, and earthy, each snap
erupting their clear sap into perfume.
I remember the way the beans would sound:
like fingertaps, like the brownish noise
of seventies television before cable. Mamaw
would talk upstairs, scalding the water
to seal the jars. The pints would keep
for years, and still pop open into
the invisible bruises and prints of our small hands.
