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All I have of you are twisted rivers that were your fingers
and creeks that flood with catfish and moccasins
and all the horses who broke their legs in your fields you had to shoot
and drag them by their hooves into a deeper wood.
There was a daughter named Mary who choked to death on a chicken bone
while you beat upon her back.
One more thing you didn’t ask for to make you go silent.
And the bridge across Stephen’s Creek
where my father rode in a cart you made pulled by a limping spotted mule
when he was still the one with sunlight gathered in his hair
the one the piney woods loved just for being.
That bridge where your cousin blew his old head off with a shotgun
that had a stock hand carved after the war between the states
before a flooding rain took the piling from under him
and he fell.
And all I have left is an obstinate happiness I didn’t ask for
the willingness to go on living even though I am dead.
I say I am pleased with myself.
I say I am willfully happy. |
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