in, but not of
the South is rising.
surging through me
like the flash flood that smothered Ball Camp Pike
and threatened to swallow your car,
that one wet and angry Spring.
like adrenaline through the veins of an
undercover operative.
in these hollers, but not of them.
adapted but not native,
embraced but never authenticated,
a sojourner, i am familiar with these currents.
curl my tongue around the words just so,
drawn out to buy time or clipped quick for twang,
safety in lost syllables.
the old familiar tune, tucked in well worn grooves.
moving me around, among, unsung.
know when to bat an eye and bless a heart,
or plunge a dagger into it, smiling —
always welcome as long as you’re moving on.
i mapped these back roads well,
took notes and donned my disguise.
i cannot remember before
so this destiny must be my demise.
inhabited but never home,
scattered but reeled in like a magnet,
when it needs me, when i’m drowning,
in an instant
i feel it rise.
.
.
.
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