Domestic

Hypoallergenic beehives are my natural namesakes. I raked the tired stairs of red leaves, the garter snake eyes me in the crawl space, the garden hose, the sodden moss grows, grey blows a gristled craw-dad, Bay Saint Louis Mississippi sips the Southern storm: heed the weathered bird, string you from the corn.  Harford hay bales roll the hills for miles and I get lost driving to find myself again but this last time, I met the winter’s abject sunker, stalked me down like a deer.  I cannot hear my soul no more, jack’s unhooked, tied my keds together under the desk.  The auto-mechanic hits on milfs shameless, the pond scum, the rabbit, the cold wooden attic, the rooster’s hold, the widow’s watch, sister in the keep, and oil in the pan.