Before country music
knit itself together
from the melting-pot
came folk–old country ballads,
the gospel, the blues,
the work-songs, the stories.
Listening to “I Wish I Was
A Mole In The Ground, ”
I do–sometimes, my own body
feels unlike home, and wouldn’t it be
easier to be a lizard in the spring?
Imagine a home of clear water, slow
and blinking through the dim evening light.
Imagine regeneration like the lizard’s tail,
as if one could grow into a whole new thing.
We had to pull the calf out
stillborn
with a rope.
“Hook her up and drag her near the tree line, would you?
And dig a hole and bury her, ok?
I’ll clean up in here.”
And so I did.
The dead calf
seemed to swim along the ground behind the tractor.
Went back when I was finished.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now take the rest of the day off,” he said.
“Go down to the river and swim,” he said.
I said, “But there’s work to do” and he said, “You heard me.
Everybody deserves a day off now and then and besides,
I feel like milking alone, ok?”
“Ok,” I said and headed for the river
as he slid the door open
and called our cow friends to the barn.
I can’t help but still be a little bitter
Left there
Don’t get me wrong I was a very rough-around-the-edges kid
I kept my head down
But was it really like that?
Did y’all really have no idea?
Did y’all really think I was fine?
All those red flags
All those firsthand experiences
Did the 360 visual of it all really look like it needed to be left
Alone?
I get it
Life needed to be lived
Escapes needed to happen
I turned out fine
And so did y’all
But let’s not forget and let’s not go assigning titles or roles
Because it wasn’t like that
Holidays I like best
are those that are not
human made. Solstice
and equinox, full moon
and new. Eclipse, comet
shower, timekeepers
common to all through
time and geography.
There are exceptions
of course. Unless I am
dead asleep Thanksgiving
comes every day. How
could it not when my
backyard garden, my
beloved painter and
poetry keep taking turns
saving my life?
With your phone hand
Double-timing as pilot
Two fingers hooked around the wheel
Guiding the car to a rolling stop
Your head bobbing
Barely visible over the dash
Fishing in the glove compartment
Floorboard, passenger seat, cup holder
Wherever that bloody thing is
I can’t say that I disapprove of your actions
Though I do
I can’t say that I’ve never pulled the same shit
Since I have
I can’t even allow myself to think that I’m any better
Because I’m not
All I can do is hope
Hope that I make it to my destination
And then the next one
And the next one
The next one
Just hoping
Praying
“I have to go
delete my statuses.
It wasn’t
*personal* personal,
but
*I* know it was personal
because I was feeling
personal.”
