In the rue holler I find her,
folded careless in the belly
of that Model T
down by the old sawmill,
down by the larch and rushes,
her bones wailing low,
her wind in them willows
like a storm a-gathering,
like a bell calling
distant kin to feasting.

Cattails are eat-able,
cucumber flavored
and tender
if cut
young enough.

In that rue holler I fold her
gingham dress,
once Sunday-pressed,
careful and neat.
God don’t take kindly to
slovenly creatures.
“Purge me with hyssop,”
she once, quiet, said,
“and I shall be clean.”

I fold that dress over
her folded bones.
I cover the “shame” of her,
that braincase cracked,
marrow jelly escaping
like willow wind,
filling all them wilds
with dark storm promises
and unnatural hunger.

Larch soil
is sweet,
roots reaching
for water and
drinking deep.

In that rue holler I gather
tattered evidences,
spool up threads of
blood and offal.
I patch the destruction
of menfolk’s brutal hands.
I weave her back together
just as steady as
darning Sunday socks.
I sew lungs under them ribs.
I press swamp-soil-flesh
‘round her thighbones
and fingers and breasts
and eyes until she
takes to crying
with her throat
as well as them bones.

Until she—
terrible, beautiful she—
is ready to rise,
her love, and mine,
a wail,
that wail a hungry
and vengeful,
and deafening,
thunder.