for Charles Frazier

Whether it was the thirteen moons that night

in the cold, mountain sky,

or the woods lit up with gollywhoppers of light,

it was what we remembered as Halloween for

the rest of our lives as something so spooky

that to even say the word “haint” was a spell

we cast on ourselves and all our friends.

Even with all that on our minds,

we ran with our pokes to every house on the street

hoping for a handout, the miracle of money,

or candy to go with our bottled dope.

We were just yardbabies, then, but

now, when we write in the night

we kindle the thought of flames–the names–

that kept us warm as a whang of likker or

woozy as when we read a wishbook

or what we writ in blankbooks under cover of

what were our wildest dreams.

Stickerweed.

Step rock.

Stay-place.

Squinch owl.

Stingy vine.

Sheepshower.

Shoemake.

Sweet fern.

Sour mash.

Stump-water.

Snowbird.

Snakeroot.

Shuck-beans.

Shoo-fly.

Sow belly.

Sassafrack.

Shame-briar.

She-balsam.

Sugar tree

and sweet-talk

to sweethearts so purty that

it hurt our’n eyes to see.