In this town, the stomped paths shoot off of
shelled roads & chase receding coastlines,
I bet you do, Dixie,
wanna look away
Past Little Rock Central,
We observe National Poetry Month in April by publishing a Southern poem each day.
She tries to draw her father,
a generic round face atop a stick body.
She does not remember how
The fox sleeps beneath the ground
as a northern wind brings an early snow.
Her dreams are disrupted by hounds
Where the river spilled into narrows
as summer eased into autumn, a boy
Not long before her death, she gave
me the red bowl, a simple piece
of inexpensive glassware,
He did Blackbeard’s bidding,
knew the ocean, and land
that rose from it like a seasoned crop,
It unlisted from our lexicon along
with ancestors’ harder drawls and ways: