with her balding bedsheets, 
August’s bitch, strung up on the line
her feet are bleached roots
    azalea eyes,  blue from the acidic dirt of Panhandle drought

A whole town:     armed to the teeth, 
                             arming themselves against my teeth. 
She-cat of Bladenboro, 
                              I’m here for your dogs, 
                              your sheep,         your sons,         your blood.   
                  You know who I am, boys. 

your candle burns too brightly
never to find another flame to stoke it: 
your kindling is out there. 

first of all, let’s talk sweet tea. Yankees joke about the secret being sugar—& it is, partly—but the real secret’s in the baking soda. it takes the bitterness out of the tea & makes the sweet taste sweeter. just like you should be to your husband. neutralize all the bitterness & just be sweet as Southern tea. & don’t squeeze them teabags. you know what I mean, girl.