by David L. McNaron
Ready for the cicada whine, the low-dropping
Spanish moss hanging like haunted memory
stopping just south of Montgomery like a family line.
Ready, once again, to receive the pain, offered
up like communion wafers and red grape juice
at the Independent First Methodist Church.
Bourbon will puddle like molasses in a tumbler
by my bed. Tomorrow morning I will drive on,
troubled and hurting for home.
David L. McNaron grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, and was educated at UAB and the University of Miami. He teaches philosophy at Nova Southeastern University in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and received his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts in 2003. His poems have appeared in Mississippi Review, Gulf Stream, Red Booth Review, Ellipsis, Summerset Review, Tor House Newsletter and other magazines.