Ode to Barbecue


We are lost again in the middle of redneck nowhere,
            which is a hundred times scarier
than any other nowhere because everyone has guns.
            Let me emphasize that plural—rifles,
double-barreled shotguns, .22 semi-automatics,
            12-gauge pumps, .357 magnums. And for what?
Barbecue. A friend of a friend’s student’s cousin’s
            aunt’s husband was a cook in the army
for 30 years, and he has retired to rural Georgia
            with the sole aim in his artistic soul of creating
the best barbecued ribs in the universe and, according
            to rumor, he has succeeded, which is not surprising
because this is a part of the world where the artistic soul
            rises up like a phoenix from the pit of rattlesnake
churches and born-again retribution, where Charlie Lucas
            the Tin Man creates dinosaurs, colossi of rusted
steel bands and garbage can mamas with radiator torsos,
            electric-coil hearts, fingers of screws. Here W.C. Rice’s
Cross Garden grows out of the southern red clay with rusted
            Buicks shouting, “The Devil Will Put Your Soul
in Hell Burn it Forever” and “No Water in Hell,” and I think
            of Chet Baker singing “Let’s Get Lost,” and I know
what he means, because more and more I know
            where I am, and I don’t like the feeling,
and Chet knew about Hell and maybe about being saved,
            something much talked about in the deep South,
being saved and being lost because we are all sinners,
            amen, we bear Adam’s stain, and the only way
to heaven is to be washed in the blood of the Lamb,
            which is kind of what happens when out of the South
Georgia woods we see a little shack with smoke
            pouring from the chimney though it’s August
and steamier than a mild day in Hell; we sit at a picnic table
            and a broad bellied man sets down plates of ribs,
a small mountain of red meat, so different from Paris
            where for my birthday my husband took me
to an elegant place where we ate tiny ribs washed down
            with a sublime St.-JosPphe. Oh, don’t get me wrong,
they were good, but the whole time I was out of sorts,
            squirming on my perfect chair, disgruntled,
because I wanted to be at Tiny Register’s, Kojack’s,
            J.B.’s, I wanted ribs all right but big juicy ribs dripping
with sauce, the secret recipe handed down from grandmother
            to father to son, sauce that could take the paint off a Buick,
a hot, sin-lacerating concoction of tomatoes, jalapeZos
            and sugar, washed down with iced tea, Coca-Cola, beer,
because there’s no water in Hell, and Hell is hot, oh yeah.