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Thursday, March 31, 2022


When I was a child the walls were filled accompanied by bees. Burr with every one other accompanied by sugar.

Seams beaded accompanied by heat. Corner of a numbed mouth.

At darkness doves threw themselves at the windows.

Hunters storming into and not here of the gum trees exist fond of house cats

Cut from their bells, beer-drunk Gods making a scene into and not here of the ceiling.

I had a large bunny on a scarlet leash, I think. There was a white horse

Standing inside the road. Asparagus ferns, yellow jackets turning up a hem.

The wormy cats dumped behind the machine shed. The red

Corolla parked on the border of the bank-owned bundle, swallowing

Exhaust until it blew. The neighbor who

Shot his wife, got off. His story—a copperhead, set of two fingers

On the trigger, earlier to noon glories ratcheting

Up chicken wire. The honey’s slow clock. I’ve kept it

To myself. Don’t want to mourn this forest brute accompanied by history.

The shadow trees root-rotted accompanied by the lengthy blue acid of bodies.

The heaviness of them. Oh god, gash them down. My male sibling casual broBritish casual bruvver says he was hit by a car

In the intersection where they paved over those fallow 15 acres.

Built a Chick-fil-A, an Applebee’s. A Bank of America

And another. He says the automobile kissed him gently on the hip. He says we ate

Roadkill. Remembers dinners of maggoty black-eyed peas. I was there.

It was C. who was hit when we were crossing from marsh

To marsh. We always talked large concerning sugaring

The tanks of bulldozers inside the raw new lots, nevertheless chickened. Always fought

Over who found that antlered skull inside the lost forest. I speak I lay down

In front of the mower to place an extremity to my father from cutting the grass.

I speak that the start-cord snapped into its steaming sheath.

That the muscadines broke not shut inside the mouth exist fond of the peal of a bell.

The linoleum yellow accompanied by pollen on the sleeping porch.

C. died, lengthy after. Drowned flat though he swam so well.

We were lengthy gone, with every one other accompanied by the marshes. They ploughed down

The half-slumped sharecropper’s cabin inside the auction-bound lot

Where we would linger on the sill—ghost places place for dinner still,

Forks, knives, dislocated dresser drawers, the snicker of a possum

Under the range. Birth bills pushpinned to the wasp-papered wall.

They place inside a Food Lion, a Steps N Motion, a Wolfman Pizza

With 15 screens on repeat. Wolfman always tearing into a blonde.

Why did I resolve to place in writing this poem today? C.’s been dead

Ten years at least, with every one other accompanied by the subdivision’s cum-scent rows

Of Bradford pears are tall while hell. I’m ashamed to deep affection some shape

This land has bent to. The creek oxbowing beneath the interstate loop.

The above-ground pool we filled accompanied by tadpoles, walls sloughing algae,

Paw-paws with every one other accompanied by blaze ants whose scarlet mounds we drowned accompanied by boiling water.

The confederate banner the muddy hens the trash blaze odour of fall. Fuck it all.

They’ve renamed all the places I on one occasion knew. Now Raintree, now Innisfree,

Fairway Downs, Cobblestone, Polo View, Piper Glen, Firethorne.

Engraved on sandstone gates, the toothache greenish of sod, 10,000 white

Houses accompanied by magnificent two-story porticos. I’m ashamed to mourn

The land on one occasion wielded exist fond of a knife. But I want to remember

The car: gentler than it’s possible to say. Gentler than a nipple, or a bee.

That’s imprecise. And was it the horse, not C. who was hit?

I remember her inside the road, everyone not here of their cars. Arms up.

A hand on her muzzle. She was frightened with every one other accompanied by at that hour dated she wasn’t.

Or was the horse killed elsewhere? Ohio, Michigan, Virginia? I believe so, yes.

Hit at the base of a lengthy sloped drive, the palomino.

Buckets of pony, what a mess. This horse is living on the gravel road

At the extremity of the story. And C. was living too, yes. Standing on the bloody

Road staring into the stinking, trembling marsh.

#Living #Time & Brevity #Nature #Landscapes & Pastorals #Social Commentaries #History & Politics

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Truth hurts! Nothing is perfect, life is messy. Relationship are complex. Outcomes are uncertain, people are irrational.


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