And be-low
(for Clay County, KY)
A tire, three wheels
off a child’s
tricycle, ripped
jeans and hand-me-
down gray coats, dyed
a permanent brown. Stone-
washed hoodies, stones
from Ulysses Creek, misplaced
and longing for home. Mud. Two yards
of grandma’s yarn, empty spools
in the neighbor’s jam-packed
pool. Mason jars for pickling, for
jamming, jammed against a beat-up
Chevy four door, never bound
for the road again. Flood water. Then,
Mason’s left shoe. Mason’s right
shoe. A swing set from the school,
a weathered grave-marker
from the Bowling’s family cemetery
on high. No date left. Mud. And be-
low, a bud, two winged
leaves on a seedling, stretching
toward forgiveness that looks
like a gloved hand.
Hollow
at the funeral home, we kiss
his cheeks, hold hands,
despite the chill that runs
down his dormant
spine into mine.
we lament this husk,
like the ravaged land
merely acres away. only,
this body is used, wasted,
& ours are not promised
tomorrow.
the holler has years,
but ours dwindle
as i press my cheeks against
his warm sweat dripping
like a broken faucet,
summertime drizzle, marrying his
smile with my frown.
walking its length
which birthed me
unnatural & backwards,
baptized in coal slurry,
anything less than destruction
so let me wade. i am 21 today.
it’ll outlast us all,
as we flicker & flit.
