My granddaddy Silas was born on the Nightingale plantation 
in Plantersville, South Carolina, on riverbanks that loved 
three generations of my kin, captured
in a green-tinted photograph, hanging in my daddy’s den.

Tonight, my eyes will take each old-world bird from the cropped space, 
send them home with their songs and favorite foods.

            Look out for me I’m a-coming too

with rice, okra, hard-boiled eggs, and Lord Calvert.

My daddy says if I get out of my car on Nightingale land, 
the folks who own it might shoot. My daddy says, 
“Never leave the driveway.” 

            Glory into my soul

I watch all of my ascendants. Their faces reflecting me 
in that photograph. Their eyes are dead 
black-eyed Susans.