Carter Davis Johnson

A Suit for Grandfather

Tobacco farmers have no clothes to wear

Beneath the ground, save denim and canvas cloth

So thin it would hardly strain a curd.

I see grandfather back in fifty-four,

His back was strong; his knife was like a mind

That flashed across my young sweat-covered eyes.

We’d stack the fronds and hang them in the barn

Where evening winds would cool the rustling ghosts

That watched me sweep and put away the tools.

He supervised with handkerchief in hand,

A moment's sigh; we’d listen for her voice

To end the day with draughts of lemonade

And bowls and bowls of dense October beans.

He wore his best shirt the day that I was wed,

Its only patch was down beside the cuff.

My suit was plain with narrow black lapels,

The kind a college boy could wear again.

He looked more dignified in it than I,

Despite the pallor of his gaunted face:

A thin black veil across his paper skin,

Powdered beside the pine and clean white lace. 

Carter Davis Johnson is a Ph.D. candidate in English at the University of Kentucky. In addition to his scholarly work, he writes creatively and has been published in Ekstasis, The Road Not Taken, Flyover Country, and Front Porch Republic.