with a broomin this room
I push cigaretteswe sang ballads
into the cornervoices blended

the wind liftsnot your enemy
inked scrapsnot your good girl
of yellow traceonly your daughter

I know of a wooden snake that zigzags along the trail, down the
lane and along the edge of the marsh.
A marsh, for fuck’s sake
Just off to the side of the ditch, it is running a straight course. Back
and forth, back and forth, as far as my eye can see.
Because that’s what was done
It peeks out at me from behind the tangled growth as I drive along
slowly with one hand on the wheel.

… Read more

Carrying in the last tomato of the year, Black Cherokee, smoky
and shining, I think: My great-grandmother used to grow these, too.

I love that my uncle’s kitchen has four front doors
all open to the drowsy Kentucky river. It smells like

basil, wood ash, and castile soap in here,
like home … Read more