Sunday afternoons my Father drove us
down the highway in the old blue Dodge.
He always sang. We passed
the slaughterhouse and pinewoods,
the Bloody Bucket nightclub and its neon sign
and crossed the red Ochlocknee River.
"My head is splitting," Mothe [...]
Its oaks and sycamores, a geography
unmarked by county lines . . .
Noon. Steam rises from the road, rainwater wet.
The odor of pickle brine is heavy in the air, the dark wood vats, pickles and cobwebs floating . . .
Across the road the old ce [...]
Rattlesnakes sleep in the bamboo hedge in our backyard. No one goes near except my brother. He cuts a thick green reed and lays it in the sun. It bakes hard to a light wood color. Sometimes we've carved whistles from the reeds. My brother strings thi [...]