There is a cadence, and a sound,
the shaping and movement of her lips
that evokes the memory of pecans
on long stretches, a grove,
and the scent of manure, and dirt,
the shuffling of dominoes
and laughter.
In Ada, they say,
all the secrets whispered on the wind
are exculpatory and brittle,
hidden on serpentine paths,
dirt roads where policemen park
and talk about elections and little league
while sipping iced tea and submission.
No comments:
Post a Comment