Your Indiana Accent

Brooklyn Copeland


 Your jay, a muted blue

 picnic thief, your

 boot-stomp disbelief

 and your cardinal

 in the mason jar, red

 as a bed of bonfire

 regret. And your scentless

 apple blossom, your

 stingy cherry, your stone-

 heart pear. Your cornhusk

 slits in my fingertips,

 your witch hazel solution

 to the chigger itch,

 your rusted saw

 in the rainwater ditch,

 your junk Dodge, your yard

 dog and the highway sign

 planted in your burial

 plot. And your rifles

 in pieces among the squirrel

 tails, your buckets of bait,

 your puddles of beer,

 your album of years,

 your good old boy tears,

 your Race Day, your porch

 of checkered flags, your

 tents pitched uphill, your

 possums playing dead.

 Your euchre by citronella

 light, your marathon midnight.

 Your payday bets

 between cousins, your kisses

 so fishhook, so plywood,

 so army knife, so Old Spice.

 Your buttered sunburn.

 Your beard turned white.

 Your Piscean side.

 Your only worthwhile

 fatherly advice:

 that I make peace

 before you die.


[First published in Free Verse]


Brooklyn Copeland was born in Indianapolis in 1984. She has since lived in Florida and throughout Northern Europe. Her electronic chapbook, The Milk for Free, is available from Scantily Clad Press.  She co-edits Taiga, a new journal of poetry and translation.