Death is opening the paper hearts of the milkweed, unclasping hands that held their secret all summer. Coated and mittened against November-cold, I ease along a hillside path and listen to the rustle and sift, the small talk of tall stalks in the wind: they are shaking out their…
Take measured steps. Don’t jut out your hips or swing them too much. You will look like a giraffe, or, worse, a whore.
I heard him use the word, directly, and I knew he was cut from the righteous cloth. Knew he was of the promised land, folded and refolded onto itself to create mountains and ridges and hollers.
See how wholly they open to us in death, to the moon, to the red elm scabbed with mites. —Bruce Snider Of course you are imagining an afterlife for roadkill, but have you ever slowed or even stopped to look closely at a raccoon’s teeth buried in tar to the gums?
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.
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–