Southern Gothic The Poem

Southern Gothic The Poem..

Southern Gothic

When the rain comes, the only voice
to call me in is my own. I know I’m alone now.
My feet churn red mud,

I slog through the clay earth-slog through
my southern blood, groping for traction. I think
God made my crooked face from this clay.

The pines’ branches bow but each wooded
intersection maps a cross. The jagged architecture
of magnolia leaves slice water as it falls, framed

silhouettes are locked in spider moss.
The silhouette of his smile, the taste of him
still on the tip of my tongue-a word, his name

briefly forgotten. At the creek the cicadas
had split the air with their song after waiting
seventeen years to open themselves.

I waited seventeen to open myself
to that moment. He cupped my cheek,
kissed me and whispered Let’s do this again.

I found the ring he lost in the thick of it,
took it from the muddy bank and placed
it into the palm of his hand, smooth and cool

as a rain drop. The rain drops collecting
in my brow now. He departed quick
as a voice lost on storm wind.

The trees’ arches close in. The crows,
watching in rows on the buttresses, don’t speak.

I’m dumb enough to keep my silence, too...!!!