extending beyond the edge of a pin-stripe and polka-dot quilted Appalachia, where voices lope like pickup cams, come unbolted and jettisoned over hollers, to lie forgotten and bursting into Kudzu.
She left a little at a time. The way the starlings do, lifting from a line off into nowhere, one by one until they’re gone completely. First was the index finger on her right hand. She was numb from sugar, so she didn’t notice when it started to cook. That smell that…
Without a mother’s advice, I gather what I’ll need. At a store in town I look for something with appeal for an experienced man. A nightgown–
driving to meet you in that mountain town road canopied with trees sun through, flashes of river running alongside
And he walks all day with his family, up into the hills, for it is the time after the agave hearts and screwbeans, before the rabbit drive. And they camp in the piñon groves. His boy looks for kindling while he chooses a ready tree.
What comes over someone that they can play and sing and move from song to song like walking from tree to tree
Solemn moon between two hills, mounds of deep blue turned black by night. Along the ridge a cavalry in silhouette–
Norman Amos Sometimes Virginia Creeper, a tendril of honeysuckle or wild grape, will wind around the limb of a young hickory and, as both grow, squeeze its spiral into the wick. Old women who tap the ground before they walk, ready to rap danger on its head, tobacco farmers well-versed…
It’s cold. And while I’m better at frying chicken thighs so the skin and rosemary stick, I still haven’t bought envelopes for these postage stamps, or checked the mail for that package you sent.
Jack Hodges ignored the mechanical voice of the GPS urging him to turn around. The roads didn’t exist yet, but he recognized the stand of redbud trees. He had played here as a child every Sunday after church while his parents enjoyed their weekly picnic. He followed two meandering ruts cut…