What, what, what—is how that song chimed in wilderness.
                                                               ~Sherwin Bitsui

 

But I hear where
like a streak of lightening across an ever black sky

 

the way the sky spreads from the center outward
during the storms I remember: flat sky, flat land

 

panhandle and getting a handle on daughters, and
a good hand on the chicken that thought
its circling meant escape

 

but, there is that part of the state where the winds
demand a puritan’s stance to any change,

 

any anguish. Always: buck up and smile

 

Always—doesn’t matter—I refused

 

and the belt like a blackened copperhead
found its way not just on but into
my skin
then below where I found the wild

 

geraniums within.