Marking Twain

It’s complicated.

Me and the South. Me,

and the land, and the trees.

Whose ever woods these are

are full of hounds, and secrets

and ropes.

These hollers and creeks are all

one American Lit class away from rivers,

and steamboats, and cotton fields.

The difference between hanging burley

from the top rail

and sometimes barely

hanging,

can be as muddy as the difference

between growing up attracted to

any light-skinned girl

with green eyes

and knowing how I got that way.

It’s complicated,

me and the South, me

and the land and the trees.