The sun in wan puddles, pieces
of liquid light like slices
of Wonder Bread. I was born
when such bread was a wonder and built
my body twelve ways. I was twelve
when I moved to Mississippi
and my silence was strengthened
by KKK eyes. Kelloggs,
Battle Creek, best for you
in the mornings, in a trailer
tornado of trouble and love gone wrong.
Song? Mockingbird. Listen:
concept of "the catbird seat"
lost on me lost in a sea
of kudzu and crackers. Twenty years after
I learn the lesbians were all
out at the city zoo. Meanwhile,
the wasp slides its slender head
into each cell its yellow legs
like broomstraw embrace. My roommate removes
these nests with a broom
so I don't tell where (between panes
called lights) they are. There are
all kinds or aches, like for Lake
Erie before I wore glasses at six
and clearly saw there was room for me
in the wood pile with the chipmunk
and spiders, under the sink,
and between almost any two leaves:
blueberry and buckeye, sawgrass and blue-eyed.
Wreathes: all sorrows
are the same sorrow, a great tree
with tributary branches and numberless leaves,
like the Mississippi and eventually
its creeks when seen from a plane.
I first flew when I was seventeen
but then I cared more to look at the clouds.
Water might sparkle a sign like speech
and a puddle could give you a shape or a face.
The sky, however, will always be far
enough and empty
a way on through.