Family Farm Sonnet
In truth, I don’t know who created me,
still can’t find polite words: not for his
house full of hot air or those oak trees
in their patriarchal postures. Dropped leaves
were a royal mess for the woman to figure out
how to contain. Everything grew like crazy
there: in beds of moss, the toadstools sprouted
profanely, while kudzu was bent on strangling
anything demure. Everyone told me, hold still!
I couldn’t. I backslid, ruined my eyelet dress
in a slick of mud. But even the cows willed
themselves to find a hole in that fence, pressed
their fated fat to the road. Better to make a run
for this. I hit the gas, left my name to rot in the sun.
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