Your Indiana Accent
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.