On top Greenhill,
pocketed in North Carolina mountains—
Pat lived in a marked brick house
Toward August sundown in California
my grandmother’s mirror her mother’s
people brought by wagon from Arkansas
Shoved behind a stack of hymnals
and fishing lures
saying in the south
want two baptist churches
build the first
oh dear you only bring me cut flowers
showing me this is dead already
You’ve seen them, too—
the cute young couple
sitting in a booth
Our first interview for National Poetry Month features a Houston poet who describes the South as "a haunted house in the middle of an exquisite garden."
Raw-armed after a day of hoisting bales
from the shorn field to the flatbed
trailer, having paced in the diesel-thick wake
Read our daily poems throughout the month of April as we showcase Southern poets in the largest literary celebration in the world.
A man walks past a broken yard
He sees something, A work of art.
He sees equality.
All People as one