Somewhere Down the Walmart Road
What is that scent?
That diffuse saturation
from a resplendent gilt and snowy drop that
winds beneath incandescent green,
parasols of giants,
a green that glows newborn
new against the burnt
mauve clouds among the electrified
ions around the forests of barked
beribboned Maypole trees that sway to the
beat of an evening
What is that scent that soothes
the astringent, delicious sting of
this fresh season’s labor?
That slips between each
red bud and tree as it wanders the
ranges of stacked and lofty loamy curves
echoing well and away
lurking early dew?
The scent that proclaims,
I am from down, down in the earth and
I am alive, alive.
This airy pungency flutters two girls
who live in a trailer in a field
next to a mansion,
somewhere down the Walmart road,
one born of her mother,
one born of their older sister.
They dance and run and dodge rain plops
and pick those gilt and snowy drops,
the honeyed succor that swathes
the busted fence,
the long and holey boundary of
The Desolate Realm.
With this, these girls weave haloes
to settle upon
their pierced brows.
A sashay through the Maypoles at sunset demands
the grace and beauty of a fairy.
They call to their kitten,
their coal black tiny kitten,
their brand new baby kitten,
the one that dances and runs and plays
and like the honeysuckle mewls,
I’m alive, alive.
The girls call,
Here Nigger Nigger!
Come on, girl!