Once made an image keeling 

over the felted crest of an altar, I beget 

a Georgian road in disrepair, lone 

cotton plant as my/its fascia

 

We are entitled to creation– 

forking my plaited hair with 

two industrious hands my mother’s 

thumb was smashed and made 

crooked by her own, and she, peering 

through a filthy window pane saw 

shattered/slowed/crystallized the segmenting 

of my uncle’s skin beneath the 

manic bite of a dog

 

Our offspring now make for bourbon 

and other secular libations: 

oxygenated, spurting blood 

meditative devotion 

the roots of a lone cotton plant