secrets of the south.

As the resilient honeybees
make their return from the grave,
I take my own leave
in search of their vitality.
I pack my treasures in silken bundles
and stick-tied handkerchiefs,
oil the rusted hinges in my legs with red wine
and head south.

I’ll follow the dirt roads
trimmed with weathered, wooden houses
painted in creamy pastels,
their screened-doors opening onto
sturdy front porches supporting rocking chairs
and tall glasses of homemade lemonade and vodka.
I’ll trace the lines of laundry blowing in the wind,
passed the southern cross-windmills and vegetable gardens.
I’ll gossip with the wild flowers—
daises, honeysuckles, tart cherries and bluebonnet;
the Queen Anne’s lace blotted with blood
as thick and fresh as the juice
dripping from the blackberries—
and follow their directions
to the corn fields.

Here, I’ll pitch my tent,
under the crescent moon
and the buttery stars
slipping across the sky.
And if meteors should begin to fall
I won’t seek shelter—
I’m more than well-practiced
in the art of dodging houses
falling from the sky—
I’ll simply open my pillowcase
and then pawn my plunders
to the devil at the cross-roads
in exchange for
the secrets of the south.