Which drink will it be?
     The one that poisons me?
Did you know the south is all debris
       moving downstream–
Asking: Which cup has a sheen?
I’m tired of holding mason jars up to the light
        in the night, worrying.
Because that’s what 35 in 24′ looks like-
         America’s most important bedtime story:
                          No one is coming for the poor.

What else about Flint are we forgetting?
      Palestine? Up the road in Martin County?
Where does your conviction go when you’re thirsty?
4,700 people, 3,500 dead fish. The air smells like plastic
and the dog won’t stop vomiting. 
                     “No detection of contaminants”
Ain’t it all just fancy language for
“Prove it, redneck”?
These days I avoid looking–
      I just drink up like a good Kentuckian.
      I just breathe in all the smoke I’m told–
My tired matching pillow lungs hug crud
       and through the jar haze
              I meet my grandpa’s dead gaze.
    He’s telling me scary stories,
          Both of us bound by dark coal,
He wants to tell me why
        they keep snuffing out the south.
But he just
        can’t catch
               his breath to
   get it out.