Your wet chest holds more memories than any skull
- living or dead. I’ve seen your chisel of a sternum,
your breastplate of old bricks. Have they served you
well? Does the safe house still stand? Paint the white
porch ceiling haint blue. Spirits might come knocking.
The watch turns to warning - a new eye approaches.
I know your safe house stands. There’s no tired wind
snake-rattling your chest, no red clay clogging veins.
That false train rumble will take us back to your door.
All dirt roads and branch waters come home to Bama.
Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal