Sample poems from MY FATHER'S SPEECH

My Father's Speech


It isn't a twang that escapes
from your voice when Uncle Charlie calls,
but a deeper country that surfaces
when you think no one is listening.

If I could pull it from your mouth
it would be black as coal dust,
the tiny grains of rock that climbed
through the miners’ lungs,
leaving your father's chest a wilt
of ragged breath.

If I could taste it, it would be
grits and coleslaw, greasy gravy
over biscuits and egg.

But you keep the edge hidden well,
tucked behind a white button down and tie,
your body aging as quickly as a young boy's.

It is hard to believe that it is the same body
as the one in the picture I dig out
from beneath your dresser each Christmas--
the class picture, the one without
your front tooth.

The boy there is smiling,
words about to escape from his mouth.
The accent does not matter.
All he knows is what he has known:

That he is a boy,
that the ground becomes cool each evening,
that his father comes home after dinner
from the day shift,
that the mountain with the tallest pines
is the last point the sun will hit
before his mother will call him
into the house for the night.





Tattoos


I.

The wrinkled black lines stretch
across my grandfather’s legs,
constant reminders of the mines,
of a life under, not above,
in a world hidden in the dark.
It is coal dust still trapped inside,
grainy insects forever caught
in the scars of his old healed cuts.
They twist and turn like mountain roads,
hunting for a destination,
for a final resting place.

II.

My father’s initials peek out
from beneath his undershirt sleeve.
Around the letters,
dotted black arrows frame his name
like a rusty weathervane,
pointing North, South, East, and West--
It is an early compass of his future,
the permanent signature
of his fifteen year old cousin’s shaky hand.

III.

The light black edges of the sword
on my husband’s shoulder are starting to fade.
No longer sharp, they look more like veins
than honor or protection.
Defining skin, rather than battle,
they arm him with the illusion
of strength, of marked force,
as he chooses fight
time and time again
over flee.





Burying the Cat


If I could remember
where the others were planted—
I would know this spot was right,
that the shovel would hit
bone or the dull crinkle
of an old grocery bag—
and that would be something,
if not the only thing,
to say this is the place.

But there is no sign
as I slice into clay,
chipped rock, ripping
through weed and wet clover.

This shoebox under my arm
could be any shoe,
plant, or child.
Patting the dirt overtop
is as simple as plucking
a blade of grass.

This stick I wedge down
will be gone the next time,
though I swear I will remember,
the way an urgent name
or number is always
the first thing to go.