At first, I wept with angry longing for the severe mountains of the old country,
driving by dark fields of crowded corn, no bump in the horizon of Southern country.
No lovers, no midnight walkers, a town of evicted sidewalks, with bloodshot eyes
of red-lights hanging upside-down, like wild turkeys hunted in the open country.
My yo-yo heart hovered in humid air, spiraling away from the cut down string,
barely pulled by the soft, timid gravity of white cotton fields in red clay country.
The blind horse of broken sleep trenched my haunted bed, beckoning the ache of old
concrete, the beastly gun noise, something to drown the honest silence in this country.
I took for lover the widows’ tremor at the passing train, at the mouth of static radio,
and the howling of Patsy and Hank, at the murderous moon in the music of country.
The trees at the edges of fields are born to face the slap of the tornado. They stand,
knowing, the quiet calm is the true alarm of the promised storm, sure to hit the country.
I am a tree, praying for the lightning to strike, to remind me, I am still alive. I hover
over myself, a ghost of myself, eating the red dirt by fistfuls, longing to call it My Country.