Southern Pastoral – Alyse Knorr

Deep in the kudzu wreaths

I’m wrought righteous by the pines—

nailed with planks for climbing, rotting,

waiting out the pointer hounds

til they run back home to dinner.

Are these the dogged days of summer?

By night we each glow light-worked

and holy, streaked with fire grease

and running. And who can blame me,

if the clay still slips down my wrists?

My hands remember the books and

the books remember the river. Floating

on their backs like swollen angels.