August 14

It’s Guynes Street, still.

The house has the same 
flat bricks as my
grandparent’s place,

painted filigree iron
to hold up the carport,
honeysuckle bushes, 

        and no front door.

Inside, they’ve kept
the old decor: 

        spinet piano, doilies
        on the couch, china
        in the sideboard. 

It’s all too fragile,
knowing what I know:

        the curtains too sheer,
        the panes too thin. 

On that morning they hit
the floor, having practiced before—

                If there is one rule
                in poetry it should be: 

                Write your own pain. 

This isn’t my home,
I am a temporary resident
and my family ties are
blessedly recent

but things are soaked
in history here,
you can’t take a step
without stepping in it,

even things as innocuous
as the crooked crook of an oak,
manicured lawns and driveways
that cut through, 

        Murder.            
        Hung juries, strange fruit—

 And what can I say? 

                   Time’s healing properties
                   are overrated, at least
                   in this state,

                   things come thirty
                   years too late,

                   if ever, and

                  there are some ugly, 
                  ugly trees here, and

                               it’s not the only place.