by Deborah R. Majors
pushed by a semi’s draft,
float from heaven
along the right of way
journeying to somewhere else—
until captured by thorny-fingered vines
or barbed wire
or a smirking sign claiming
a “$500.00 fine” before saluting
along the two laned state highway,
man’s territory, scented and marked
with musky-yellow double stripes.
a crow enter a handle-lipped plastic-white womb
then was birthed
with a cupcake creamed beak, a Hostess gift.
tied with bungee cords
and pink ribbon to a Rural Route mailbox,
poor man’s balloons
stuffed with pine straw and oak leaves
flagging the party’s location.
on the Mid-Bay Bridge,
wind-filled blindness dive-bomb
a teenage Yamaha rider.
recycled at the health food store
by a skinny old hippie—
“Turn them inside out at least;
hide the name that’s not yours.”
“Can’t do that,” he whispered, de-wrinkling
ink with colloidal silver,
goat’s milk soap, and Vitamin C,
“Best to show the nature of the beast.”
Residing on 30 country acres in the Florida Panhandle, Deborah R. Majors is a wife and mother of two grown sons, an associate pastor and a member of the Panhandle Poets Society. She has had poems and short stories published in Blackwater Review, Barefoot Review, Time of Singing, Haggard and Halloo Publications, Broken Publications’ anthology Soul Vomit: Beating Domestic Violence, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. This poem was first published in Blackwater Review in 2007.