Her voice hums soft susurrus,
the same as a boll weevil,
lilts silvery quality
like pure moonshine bubbles cook.
Upstream tongue tips gargle
two-syllable words into three.
Here she meets one of many lovers,
who's can munch paths
through Carolina cotton patches.
He's always able to deliver
the night and the rising moon;
red disk hung low over slat valley.

She understood his reasons;
he was a mamma's boy,
and often laid his head
upon her breast,
only to remember
his momma's bosom,
and her spiceyness that became
his mamma's pranks.

Her reasons; he replaced her daddy
sneaking to rush pain,
scooped the wails up
and dripped honey, moreso,
than coated tongues
licking rock candy.

This sinful nightingale was trapped
in a china-berry tree, always singing blue.
Until, one night the lovers
(and another ex-lover)
engaged in shooting fingers,
exhibition of jealousy
at local gem mine festival.
Several guests were blown away,
dynamited by seriously wounded egos
and egg salad.

Dilemma shimmied,
and the southern girl looked
for a new dance partner.
Belly swelled,
she left from constipation
before real ruckus began.

Bat-eyed,
her ex-lover's northern wife grabbed a gun,
stared back and forth,
stalked Main Street, mumbling,
I almost caught them in the act.

The lover and ex-lover's eyes crossed,
where they were stuck under a nearby table,
steaming.



�2005 by Sarah Wilson