As I make a late breakfast,
my 8-year-old cheers
@ the promise of grits. Surely
there is a little Southern woman
in her soul. You wonder
how grits could ever
be a weapon, flung
hard from the hand
of a lover scorned, the way
the grains wrap & cling, refuse
to be lonely. All that flesh she loved
burning now, past simmer, full
on boil. I can only feel sorry
for the Reverend, any note
he ever sang pale
in the company
of hot warble. I spoon
a healthy portion
on my daughter’s plate
& shiver. If
you reached the end of this poem
& all you can say is, “Shouldn’t it be
‘Badly,’ not ‘Bad’?
I bet
you’ve never been loved.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
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