waves of petulance
Mosquitos teach me patience.
And unmitigated rage.
They are the wages of my sins …
The female house spider,
of the south,
of my grandfather’s house,
seldom moves except to secure her prey …
Got word yesterday about Tony Fuller.
In ’49, he had a new, silver-gray Ford
with a glass steering knob, mounted left.
God, he could wheel that raging V-8 …
‘Virginia to New York, Again’ and ‘Roots,’ two poems about growing up.
by Robert D. Bennett Winter arrives in Louisiana, when it gets damn good and ready. We can’t count on cold weather for Halloween Or Thanksgiving Or Christmas or anytime specific.
This weekend, July would only
the rope-swing from last summer had snapped …
Have you ever
watched trees? The way
like sea anemones …
Mom isn’t sure; knows he tinkered
and babied it, an old Ford, the “weekender”
model. I feel obligated to bushhog …
Ready for the cicada whine, the low-dropping
Spanish moss hanging like haunted memory
stopping just south of Montgomery like a family line …
I am from boys and bike ramps,
from curly hair, unruly in the damp heat, cut short for taming.
I am from flower beds and rich loam; growth of things unseen …
The words no longer carried any meaning:
“I am sorry for your loss.”
So rehearsed and animatronic-
Like the pitch of a very bored salesman …
by Elizabeth Burk
“Where are the mountains?”
I ask, after an hour’s drive
through flat-filled landscapes
of sugar cane and rice fields, miles …
by Barry North
In a gray dawn,
on the edge of the gulf,
as upon the edge of time …
© Deepsouth Magazine 2013.