His Side
Teagan Fowlkes
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.