by Shanna Conway Dixon

I collected spare change from jars and buckets
in case I chose to rid myself of you.
I was afraid that you’d fall from my secrets.

jarI played with the crushed dust of opiates
on the tub’s edge—three weeks late and no one knew.
I counted on spare change from jars and buckets.

I named you Deluge. Other sons were just droplets.
I nursed you in New Orleans—my breasts milk-heavy in the bayou.
I sang of how you fell from my secrets.

We’d share a bowl of crawfish and play zydeco on cassettes.
The thin sheets on windows spotted with mildew
were bought with the spare change from jars and buckets.

You turned four while I worked. I came home and we wept
over hair clippings you tried to re-attach with glue.
You begged me not to let it fall from our secrets.

In the chicory of night, we walked to a supermarket.
I lugged a heavy purse. We whispered of curfews.
I gave you the spare change from jars and buckets.
You bought a red hat. Lagniappe—you fell from my secrets.

Shanna Conway Dixon is a senior New Media and Communications major at Middle Georgia State College and plans to return home to Biloxi, Mississippi, after graduating. She currently serves as content editor for her college’s literary magazine, The Fall Line Review, and showcases the life and works of modern women poets from the Deep South on her blog Swamp Skirts

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  • Hunter Murphy / April 25, 2013

    Nice, Shanna Conway Dixon! A little something extra indeed (Lagniappe)! 🙂