In Jersey, facing South
There is tragedy in the South
and by night she will discover it
dangling from the ends of fireflies,
a secret religion that springs out
from under summer mud and
dusty hoofprints -
and she will urge us to breathe heavy,
hear the water running shallow
on Faulkner's riverbanks.
With the thinning daylight we sit,
discussing the foundations of society
and the modern age.
Backporch conversations are the
true fulfillment of her destiny.
The stars hold fairytales
just within her grasp, and oh!
such men have died to be written
as princes in her words, covered
with her steady palmprints and
ink smears like remnants of nightfall.
She is the miracle that sweeps
through the goldmines;
she is the golden-haired
heroine of a land where smiles
do not come naturally -
she coaxes them like loose threads
that hang from coral mouths,
the corners of which touch the ocean,
leaving light footprints facing South -
the last place she will ever stand.