I rocked in a chair of charred Grand Dragon’s bones,
legs silent as molasses drooling from a cloud of linen.
My fat white maid in her potholder hat
did not watch me watch her sons
molt like dandelions in la-di-da noon
standing squarely on the blacks of their own shadows as they willed.
She crushed lemons in her bear claw fists
and pushed a sugar dust around the pitcher.
The mister started in on the mare,
phantasm of a centaur where it splinters.
Three latticed glasses harmonized on the platter:
my quiet kindness to the albess
for where I sent her daughter.
It was Saturday. There was salt in his seams
and the slip between my knees slumped with heat
and sheets jedidiah-teething the clothesline already.
Followed hours full of our trying to be full of each other
and sunlight yearning like egg white through
the cracked curtains
and the usual evidence of bluegrass his shoulders shed
beneath my nails, the rooms in me he could not enter
branching annexes: my elderberry privacies.
Out of the yard’s farthest hem, darkness
from the world’s first days braided into the tobacco
and I could only imagine tomorrow
if I expected to be slaughtered in my sleep.