Jacaranda my mother recalls the jacaranda at Cocoplum about which my brother wrote a poem both not here but the tree
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The longleaf pine inverted and snagged into the surrounding forest like a treble hook hung on a cast before it ever hits
refrain Detroit, lauded as a truly American art form, birthed from the underbelly of resistance and Black joy, broke its back somewhere
There is a reservoir here, where they live now, whose kidney-shaped lobe is bifurcated by a two-lane causeway. There is a gravel
They were born in an industrial zone, former bog-land, where the sand is stained red from all the iron in the air.
Graffiti on the defunct valve house says FREE THE RIVER. But the river’s not a river; it’s a creek. And water is
They use a metal spatula to flay a palm-sized swatch of moss from a stump in the backyard. They bring it into
Just them and the doe and a wrecked two-door truck, the metal and her body braided. They are digging bloody honey-suckle at
bells’ first toll after prayers then the tolling space hollowed a spark of grease against seasoned cast iron it tolled of dailiness
pulling into the mouth of Big Rush Run off Route 7, heading north. Hillside exposed like rockbone — a dirt path carved