southern literary festival poster

aunt phebe & grandma restoration

my aunt phebe and my grandmother at aunt phe's high school graduation.

click to enlarge.

scotch mirror

I stole the Glenlivet mirror from my dad

when he lost his home.

I told myself if he wanted it back

he could get a damned wall to hang it on,

but until then it was better off with me.

More an advert than overt reflection,

it shows me drunk, bonded and brittle,

the tenuous relationship between a father and son

who repeated histories in their own voices

and tried to make sense of themselves.  

the errant double-proof

I am born again a pie pan

in the kitchen of a master baker

now nauseated by the baking

for the memories it recalls.

Virgin enamel

shines sliding down my sides

and reflects promises of pastries 

my master refuses to stomach.

Drifts of butter blending

with lard, fine salt and spice

will never burn in my nose

for scorching my artisan

when he catches them unexpected

in just the right slice of his mind

as he retreats to his mother,

to her delicate craft of icing,

stippling resplendent fantasies

up confectionary tiers

or the savory fumblings of his father

who dredged tenderloins in sugar

instead of prescribed flour

to the delight of the dawning chef

discovering his tooth.

The pains folded into instants ensure

that the sweet fond of his fats

will never brown in me

and only dust will dust my edges.

I am a useless gift,

a token of talent resigned,

relegated to the future,

estate-saled to an amateur

who will never taste the potential

I was promised.

ratchet lake

For years the dry lake rusted,

eighty frustrated acres 

pitching tantrums in our backyard,

throwing up trees where we’d cleared,

mocking our attempts to scape the land.

We plinked water balloons in the bed

with a .22, teasing ourselves,

as one gallon by one

spilled to disappear,

whiling the time elegizing

l’esprit qui passe.  

Or something else entirely—

a capacity.

We’d drive over new trees

not just to kill them

but to fuck them up,

to maintain we were more than nature.

All in the name of recreation.

This was the indicative illustration

at the top of a clean page

in a very old book, 

the words and the world

were ours now to speak.

We scraped our plans and mockups

and cleared the thrown-up trees,

transmuted the earth

from sponge to occlusion;

reinvested inheritance

into our legacy

and counted interest 

not yet returned.

Weirs diverted backflow

for bounties of mountain laurel

and geese alighted to our delight;

this ratchet lake lived.

Sun cresting the power lines,

we saw the light on the lake

for a breath of a moment

before the lenders came and took it,

dragging us from its banks.