Emily M. Goldsmith
Albert J. Schriber, b. 1923
My mother’s father: I look up his obituary on Google to learn more about him. What I know? That he had too many wives, many children and stepchildren, many grandchildren and step-grandchildren, of which I was one—of many. Meadows, Moseleys, Hunters, Forresters, Schribers, McCollisters, Simpsons, Mays, and more, more, more. He outlived some of his children, outlived his parents, Amos and Alberta. He was outlived by his brother Paul, of LaPlace. His funeral, held in Dallas. His one dying wish, to be buried in his family mausoleum in New Orleans: denied by wife number five, or was she number six? His obituary? Not published in a New Orleans paper, but the Dallas Morning News, where almost no one will know him. I will not go to his funeral. His brother, not any better than him, not any less wived. Though he did have fewer children. Paul will still have his obituary featured in The Times-Picayune, like it should be. He will still lie to rest in the family crypt. He will be remembered for porch-sitting with the neighbors and telling stories. His funeral will take place in LaPlace. I will not go. Paul will be added to the grave, etched into a long list of New Orleans Schribers: Amos, Christina, Gladys, Amos, Paul, Alberta, Paul. Stretching from 1871 to the 2000s, hundreds of years of good and bad husbands and fathers on stone.
Reach for Banana Leaves
My husband makes jambalaya and étouffée because he says he misses home. I make gumbo in the same week because I have the right ingredients for it in the fridge. I say, “Aren’t you glad we’re not there now?” We stand side by side in our small Kentucky kitchen. “Of course,” he says as he slowly chops another onion. I close my eyes and transport. The heat hits hard like humidified bricks. The sun is a relentless shadow. The river stutters and fumbles brown in the distance. I reach for banana leaves, palmetto, magnolia, hydrangea, cypress. When I was an elementary school student, we went on a field trip to a swamp that was less than five minutes away from my house. We all piled into an airboat. They coaxed an alligator up from the waters with a whole raw chicken on an extended stick. A nutria sat in the tour guide’s lap: orange-toothed and chattering ambitiously. The swamp tours all shut down after the flood washed the remaining alligators out and most of the water with it. Folks in the neighborhood said they saw displaced alligators strolling backyards, golf courses, and asphalt for some time after—tiny alligator hands checking the mail.
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Emily M Goldsmith (they/them) is a queer Louisiana Creole poet originally from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Emily received their MFA in poetry from the University of Kentucky and their PhD in English and Creative Writing from the University of Southern Mississippi. A Pushcart-nominated poet, their creative work can be found in or forthcoming from Moist Poetry, Midway Journal, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, Fine Print Press, and elsewhere. Their chapbook, Alligator Is a Fish, is a three-time finalist for prizes.