In August,
I showed you my far, green country;
where the grass was bluer
on the other side,
and the Cumberland River
wound past our old, red house,
which crumbled, sadly,
under the weight of time,
alone but for the snakes
below the floor, the little ghost
my mother swore looked just like me.

We walked along the cliffs
where, once, I'd entertained death wishes.
You never let go of my hand.

In Harlan County,
we fucked, black on white.
It wasn't long past the time
when they didn't let your kind in.
At the hotel, they spoke in hillbilly twang,
but said more with stares.
They still gave us a room,
right below the overpass.

Now, I say names:
Harlan, Pineville, Whitesburg, Cumberland;
and they don't mean a thing to you,
no matter that you've been there.
I expected so much,
wanted you to understand
how a place can live inside a person
even when a person doesn't live in that place.
Instead, you saw empty houses, falling apart;
empty mountains, strip-mine scarred;
and you took me back, east and north;
so you could forget what you were told.

10/28/2005

Posted on 10/29/2005
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