Southern Pastoral – Alyse Knorr
Deep in the kudzu wreaths
I’m wrought righteous by the pines—
nailed with planks for climbing, rotting,
waiting out the pointer hounds
til they run back home to dinner.
Are these the dogged days of summer?
By night we each glow light-worked
and holy, streaked with fire grease
and running. And who can blame me,
if the clay still slips down my wrists?
My hands remember the books and
the books remember the river. Floating
on their backs like swollen angels.