Between them, a myriad of broken shells—
pecans, a bowl of them to be exact. His hands,
We used to sit on the porch when it rained,
And my mother drank IBC Root Beer.
They were special, not meant for me,
The Virginia-based poet talks about her new book, 'Spans,' which combines old poems with new, and credits the Southern masters for her love of language.
How well you deserve
a poem of your own
For those of you
who have drawn water
from a well or carried
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
The gardener threw him out,
when he found him sleeping,
in the shed,
Southern women once wore
disguises and hid behind masks
Mud womb, fossil, mother-speak,
first breath, bread, breadth of horizon—
catch-all for floods and storms