Pass down the skillet —
its sheen, black as granny’s
sleep, its mettle seasoned
with generations of scrapple,
love and johnnycake, rubbed
with salt and oil. Bequeathal:
that which is given and taken
in the wrist, a family’s iron
bestowed from one to the next,
screaming hot on the rangetop,
ticking as it expands, licking
to sear anything that lands
on its silksmooth anguish.
To do poor well, you need
a good pan and butter, fist—
fulls of onion and greens,
salt to make it all wilt, and
a will, sturdy as heirlooms.

Image: Dan Meyers on Unsplash

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