In a Heart’s Rut
Backroad
1.
No one drives the 1954 Dodge.
rutted in-the-once-in-blue-moon-snow.
Shovels shoved in the air swoop
downward for manure spread
on the bed.
Cotton puffs arc,
disembodied
hands shoot skyward,
hold close
the tufts.
But he’s watching you from the balcony.
Watching
the tail gate
with banners attached
bound
in the dust.
Rebel for sale flying.
2.
And waiting now, the image of him—right boot heel
carving his frown in the crumbled clods
left from a day’s checking.
Out of the labor of dusk, dung and cotton,
writhing in the banners an idiom shimmers:
Color me corn bread
myth dancing.
For once snow could freeze drudge and drag,
salt mines bursting on the neck.
There’s whistling from both windows shot out,
cottonwood-smoked language
doors jammed.
Two trails of tin cans loaded with pennies.
3.
In the front seat, two Creeks
spooked from the license plate
shaken loose by thunder.
How it flew
to another tail gate, clipped
corn ears and cotton stems
along the way.
The sound could’ve been
crippled
lean-tos
or tires
edging for ruts,
but this pick-up
stays rooted.
Rubber waiting for a long burn
like the mid-summer sun.
Off the side-view mirrors
silver medals jangled
with insignias of the white father.
They glimmered
on compost on the bed,
wood chips set for spreading
iron memories.
Pebbles crackled
through the black gold, pop
went a heat wave, boiled
the whole image, blurred, bright.
Or the picture was rattled
by Jackson’s trampled villages,
punctured land.
Up front a gamble: shells of blue turtles rolled
to celebrate—hush—
it was nothing.
Published by High Five Press (previously published in Fulcrum)
