Southern Exposure
Bring me your silent lake in the woods
and your field of harvested grain
with some rich man’s horse pastured nearby,
its eyes pearlescent, its tangled mane.
Bring your late November rain,
your hurricane plywood and muscle car
the sounds of lovemaking under the bridge,
your troublesome blurry stars.
Her hair’s in your mouth, her breath
a soft whistle, a baby bird
here and then gone, the roses
planted next to the porch
slowly turning black in the dawn.
Nothing tastes better than grits
and eggs, eating French toast
and watching new snow
dusting the crepe myrtle branches,
frozen magnolia leaves clattering below.
It’s a winter Sunday in the pine-tar South
and the gray sky like distant satin
covers the roads and the smoky woods
where mash whiskey…
