Where you grew up,
the farms are lacquered in smells
of turned cream and cut hay.
I like to think of you there—flying
We wake to snow
But still incredulous,
Our disbelief like sleep
In dream-deep eyes
On our veranda, we sit, sipping coffee.
We live in the South now, with time to relax.
Up north, we called it a deck or a porch
old and proud men,
smoking frozen pipes
Revisiting an Arkansas cult poet whose work reads like a Southern tall tale.
A roux is an amalgamation
A beginning is required
The middle must be done correctly
Oppressed, what have you?
No home, ma’am, no word, no
land. We have been scattered,
pressed, lost. Can you hear
Nellie Gordon died alone in her bed; her son's wife, waiting
in a room adjacent, watched William Gordon's apparition
waves of petulance
Mosquitos teach me patience.
And unmitigated rage.
They are the wages of my sins