These suckers speak like ashtrays, wild stray lines

of gray. Cattails on the mount that made this

state, that weighed the space between you and your

nana, silver-lined chick. Saturation,

a mother tongue. You talk like your mama.

Auburn locks of your keep. In a specter

field, among the after-harvest debris,

you cut yourself on cotton and suckle

streams of your color. Mother’s nourishment.

Drip from a city line faucet far away.