I dream gone home about ruts, an old road we don’t use where the rain wash has worn from trails shallow gullies that curve as they twin down the hillside, crushed exposed sandstone, yellow layered,
Named the false mimosa, the locust’s fine leaves droop in sleep, allowing rain to feed growth beneath.
In memory of Martha One winter in the late afternoon my aunt and I took a drive out into the countryside and watched as the sun began to set over icy fallow farm fields its shallow oblique light the very thing she wanted me to see because it was beautiful.…
Across the street from Divine Intervention Auto Repair, behind the Dairy Queen, my mother opened a nail salon named Alimony. The women inside are never my mother’s age.
The dog at the gate was a warning: What was ours, was ours. She was tied there when the gate alone was not enough, the wooden fence disassembled, the hemlocks laid bare across the path removed.
What that song is made of: ethanol, red dirt, throbbing fingers, the biggest porch you ever seen— whose father doesn’t know each word to every kind of blues there ever was?
I’d run the woods in furs stolen from my mother’s locked closet, hoping for hunters in tree stands— spend days crouched, unnoticed, where lumberjacks felled pines. I had exhausted all my options.
Building on the rubble of our lives, we grope for solace in unlikely pairings like a cinderblock cavern signed Ammo & Marital Aids, or these boys dowsing paint chips in Ace Hardware for their band’s name—
I have not written home In some time, though There are calls, emails, trips in; These are the things I do For my mother, and we are content.
Halve it: white meat, prickling heat: bead of sweat of a fingernail down the back of my neck