Worship by Ashley Hajimirsadeghi
Worship—once on the Mississippi
we hunted catfish, kissed the body
of our harvest, prayed to the river.
Here, so many tears have been shed,
merged with freshwater muck, and
became our fish. We ate the sorrow
of our ancestors for dinner, with
collard greens and shucked grilled
corn. My granddaddy was a pastor,
prayers always spilling from his mouth—
until the dementia ripped that away.
Always asked where my dead grandma
was but couldn’t keep a prayer in his
head. My momma makes my grandma’s
recipes every so often, just to keep
her alive. I was born on the Chesapeake,
not the Mississippi, fled up north like
my great-grandmother when I was eighteen.
She ran from South Carolina to Queens,
somewhere in New York City, but ended
up back home to be buried. I came home at
twenty because I craved cooking, for culture
and Iranian food, to use my hands to prepare
okra for my mother. What is a body
without a home or a river to return to?
My great-grandmother, grandma, granddaddy—
all perished without a river nearby. Buried
in South Carolina and on the mouth of the
Chesapeake, in a sleepy town known for
Maryland blue crabs. Ate small town food
at their funerals, scooped cornbread and
southern-style green beans onto paper
plates, paid our respects with food,
then went to the river. Everything begins
here, at this holy place—
