long eaten by winds, woody seed-pods

coming on. No canker or coral-spot allowed

on these cordate leaves until further notice.

Lucy Long, Lee’s other horse, long buried

on Mackey’s farm, rolls her sad bones over.

The sorrel mare, steadier than Traveller, gentler,

sends a ghost breeze whickering through the field.

No one seems to prickle when I limp down streets

named for generals. Register me a damp cloud.

First read of my yielding body’s party might be

mother, white. Not from here but allowed

on the grass, not a hue or sex shot on sight.

Privilege with a scent of condescension.

Because a threat riffles through my newspaper.

Unclassified. Some words can ionize.

Because new cattle underpass, football camp,

Auto Recyclers buying glass. A gust kicks up

where citizens dozed under flags, during

the killings. Charges me. I place this ad.