3. the south

I might die 

If I move back to the South

Homogenous

A hundred sons

And a glistening hundred women

In heat

Cracked-lipped, impassioned, slow-mouthed

They’re muttering an old farmhouse wisdom

I might move back to the South

If I die

Lots of room to spread out

And become the ground again

My brother has my will

It says, “Plant me in the roots of a 

Flowering dogwood”