Trace Road
The old truck bumped and I now envy my dad knowing how to fix it up. How to turn the dials and crawl under,
The old truck bumped and I now envy my dad knowing how to fix it up. How to turn the dials and crawl under,
There were no sounds when the first 10,000 men died Or when 20,000 men departed this life
Mud womb, fossil, mother-speak, first breath, bread, breadth of horizon— catch-all for floods and storms
Seven years old on a dried up tobacco farm. I am running through rows of hard-packed sod, no more tobacco to grow
How different now the pasture, nurturing scrub pines, sweet gums, blackjacks the livestock long gone. But Houston's horse
Livening together in the blueberry house’s multiform sun, leaf shadows scattered on the bed, two records playing at once
Grandmother kneels over the washing board at Miss Parsons, later piecing each cloth on the line, one to the other attaching them without flaw,