genesisSpring2016.pdf


genesis spring 2016     31     

strips of  new wheat sway in the sand like planted chorus 
lines. They hum the Southern battle cry with the cicadas, 
while closing screen doors  keep the rhythm steadied.

On a front porch, red-faced farmers gnaw their after-
supper pipes. The stories of  lost souls who bend 
and weep like heavy willows are fed with the dessert 
pie to their grandkids, garnished with secondhand smoke. 

The burnouts eternalized by the farmers’ parables
are found digging for cigarette butts in the gutters. 

scrape horseshoes against the wooden street markers.

The poor men can hear the dying snap of  a mouse,
caught in the stove trap of  a skinny hilljack. He itches 

that goes unwashed until the next rain. In the morning,

grubby beater-lickers will pitter and pat the clotted Black
Dirt into baby foothills. They will grind the sandy 
grains between their teeth as they sit with chubby 
knuckles wedged between clammy, raw thighs.

They will wait for their life to be validated by a tractor
ride on the tire guard, to mind a beer cooler underfoot,
to watch the soft soil sift and separate through the blades. 

The Lesser of  Appalachia
Sarah Turmail