13 Arkansas

Delta: the days don't bring you quicker. No,
Subiaco is not filled with our dead

but a warm bed & a belly full of rice.
In winter—rows & rows & none the one

we want. A single straw in the cattle field
closest to us falls from a worn bridle.

In winter, we wear a brown suit, we sing
an inscription: whoever floats downhill

in after hours dotes longest or falls
asleep slowly. We walk a dry river

bed & bury our head in our chapped hands
& say enough. Whether the nights name

our graves or loose cravings or not—a kind
of measure: a man hums a weathered hymn

in a simple house in a town far from here,
& one tongue curves into another tongue

without worry. In winter, it's Arkansas
he hates most—Yes, you & all your children

Copyright © 2009 Stacy Kidd All rights reserved
from New South
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission