I learned about Potlikker soup by

reading a poem. As if the tough dark

greens and leftover hambones would ever

sound delicious. And yet the way that poet

spoke of those edible leaves was a thing

of beauty.        I knew a guy once, they used

to call him Soup for short because his name

had nearly every letter of the alphabet

strung together in an unsayable way. 

But now I think it was just too much

to bother with. It takes more time to say

a name that's full         of consonants instead

of vowels, and he never seemed to mind

anyway. Potlikker soup is made from           

saving the extra parts,             using up

what might otherwise be thrown away—

an old African-American tradition from back

in the day of plantation kitchens, a chance

to salvage the remnants, the only way slave

cooks managed to have enough to still feed

their families.

I learned some troubling history in the process

of researching that recipe, and it made me

feel guilty for not knowing the backstory

of how it came to be. So, I think I should

have called that guy    by his real

name, not cut it short

for the sake of ease, the same way

the real history of this country should be

spoken, so much has been abbreviated

like a reduction of truth because         it's easier.

Calling that guy          Soup didn't do him

justice;

it took away a piece of his identity, crushing

letters into something more sayable,

an altered script,          rather than saying

his real name, honoring his-story

and the roots   from whence he came.

Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is enrolled in the Vermont College of Fine Arts, MFA in Writing program and is an eleven-time Pushcart Prize nominee. In 2020 her latest collection Alice in Ruby Slippers was shortlisted for the Eric Hoffer Grand Prize.