An interview with the Mississippi-born poet who explores grief through poetry in his 2012 book He Will Laugh and is currently working on an anthology titled The Queer South.
The thing was, she wasn't really pretty.
How many movie stars, in the firmament
of Hollywood, that tinseled, technicolor world,
It's time to rise and shine, old Haleyville!
The morning jockey yelps into a mike
That twangs his tinny tenor to the hills
Stacks of pale, pink plates litter the parlor,
reminders of an impoverished past.
All rooms empty. All voices hushed,
Mine is a kind of imagination
that can't crack an egg
without being haunted
a time was that men
would sit around a fire
shouldering up to cottonwoods
listening to fox hounds
I say spring shall come
It shall come like the sweetest
Clematis wrapped around
The mailbox. It shall be like
We shield our children from the truth
as much as we can, tell them we’re moving
because the new home will be so much better
Music notes played in ringing ears
were applauded —
piano keys tapped lightly against fingers;
Two shrubs planted
at the entrance to my house
in early bloom, mid-December,