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.