Polka dots go there to be reborn under a dry sky
that relishes its deep knowledge of jay
and a carcass on the verge associates with vultures
under a storm of Kudzu vines, as barn cats writhe
and posture according to their calendar.
Polka dots go where corn knows the tribulation
of becoming hominy, where scattered tinfoil draws
a murder and its crows and mamma fries
the Sunday chicken, peppered, dipped in egg and flour,
as she sidesteps rumors of coon stew
served with pone, the scraps fed to more than one
kind of hound. Polka dots go where an honorific
loves its Christian name and history settles
on all of us like cotton dust on a picked field.
From Belle Rêve