“he’s from the backwaters of kentucky” words that invoke 

dry and dusty streets god preaches through traffic lights i imagine 

sundays are minor deities your bible upon the kitchen counter and i 

think, were you christian back then? 

i ask as if you would remember days when 

your only psalms could be promises, the kind that 

etch “drowning” onto 

ribs 

wade in the water…wade in the water 

children 

your momma abandoned you on the street i wonder if 

she had a white starburst crowding her chest like you do or if she 

boiled down sugarcane to 

color your eyes deep molasses maybe she bowed her head and prayed 

to god to keep you safe sent you to live with 

the milkweed instead of her 

white lies 

wade in the water…God’s gonna trouble the water 

there was a creek, i imagine, the kind that you dip your feet in when 

momma has no mercy and cicadas crowd like prayer beads, the 

wooden ones that resemble hickory nuts and will slide through cupped 

palms, each finger an eyelet maybe you once sewed scripture with 

marshweed 

in summertime you could see swarms of dragonflies they become

promontories, like your presence, something that does not belong i 

hope you pleaded with the clubtails sent 

momma postcards even if she could not deign to 

withdraw syllables, receive an advance for your sentences i hope she 

wept for her son 

i wonder if god silenced your damnation with 

foxtails, barbs between your teeth and 

each eyelash a gentian plucked from 

henry’s pockets: sometimes i wish to 

slip fingers into them, unravel gospel from your earlobes store them as 

keepsakes underneath my 

tongue 

your years are longer than mine.