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Every pine tree has my face on it. I am somewhere between not being a tow truck or a beard. I am not molasses or lima beans or split-rail fences around barns. I carry a bark. I carry a scar on my left knee. This is how I grow up despite most of the curses mumbled before I got here: chicken houses, junk yards, wild dogs. I am not cornbread or copper wiring. I am not the story of every kid who punched back the dust, pulled up election signs, and threw bricks through school windows. I am not the story of every broken bottle on the straw. I am the straw.
"Break" from Punch. Hub City Press, 2014 |
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