My Kentucky Home
Tennessee is a
beautiful state but it is
not my Kentucky
My husband’s eyes are something like the trees;
Forest green is more green than his eyes green
If bark be black, then his skin be brown leaves
If leaves be thick, then his head hair be lean
His lips are so full and I love his kiss
I like to grab his perfect round buttocks
His tongue and lips lick and suck me to bliss
He pleasures me with his beautiful cock
He takes good care of me and our children
Bought my dream coop infront of the park
Cooks almost all our meals in our kitchen
Pays all our bills and a earner at work
And yet, I bust this man’s balls everyday
Because I’m a woman and it’s foreplay
Standing at the terminal window,
watching your plane roll slowly
to the runway’s end, lights twinkling,
seeing it hesitate, poised on the edge
of the world, then moving forward,
faster and faster, I lurch backward,
as if to pull you back, as when you
as a child ran ahead of me toward
danger, cliffs’ edges, busy roads,
my shoulders would square in resistance,
instinctive hope that the invisible cord
still connecting you to me
would rein you in.
Detour
for Alice Heyer Ramsey, first woman to drive from NY to SF, starting June 5, 1909
were the sudden stars a novelty after
your suitable city discarded like an apron
did turgid rivers tattered with foam
mirror mismathced doilies left behind
did stormclouds rise as
lumpen sheets to smother
absent pavement & signposts
vague landmarks to bypass
the lure of away called out unscripted & free as
green-bladed oceans rippled unmown
under a bowl of downturned blue
sun-throated Sirens with feathered arms
lured you sideways to crush handfuls
of prairie pink roses like those
once by your door but oh these so sweet
& what of that faraway torte
made of buttes layered hot reds cool chocolates
that drip in the shimmer mirage or reward
follow your polestar
unfurl the vague heat & confirm
watch the sizzle & hiss of sunmelt
in a sea at the edge of your world
while at your back
an ordinary day
One day he discovers he can’t read a road map,
the paper kind, and all that implies
runs over you like a ton truck;
then a week later he is able to read the map
and joy surges. However, whatever,
you are never prepared.
We grew up sharing a bedroom: French Street, Foxglove, Highland Drive. She wore ugly shoes and elephant leg pants. Summers she hung out at the public swimming pool with teen-aged sirens who baked themselves in Crisco and took me along. We slept until noon, then she made miniature pizzas on biscuits for lunch. If I promised to wash dishes she made oatmeal cookies. She taught me how to read the TV guide. Our feet were so dirty from walking barefoot they wouldn’t come clean. I made half the bed and wiped my snot on her side of the headboard. She gave me a final jab after I fell asleep.
America stands
at a crossroad,
centuries of hope
and promise
in democracy
at stake.
Will we remain
committed
to the promise
of egalitarianism,
or morph blindly
toward totalitarianism?
