I wove you a heart of grass, dirt, owl feathers and pony hair
As a storm of dusty tobacco raged like moths
And it’s only you and your scruffy five o’clock that
Clouds my view of the sunrise and double yellow lines
And blends with graphite outlines of peaks and the pines

As you left and drove this morning and cupped your blessed joe
Felt the same strength with which you clasped
My oaken waist within the depth of night—fervent and slow
I hope you felt warmth even on the morning’s wings

Dirty and damned lovin’ from deep down below
And as you looked at the beaming sun and you thought about things
With the same admiration that you
Glimpsed into my eyes with this morning
I hope you felt a molasses-covered lasso
Tugging at you from my heart with god-given wrath

And as I plowed down the gravel path
All boot-heeled and bundled,
I thought briefly of running
And then decided to strangle that giddyup—
And considered with a whistle that all was well
in this good ‘ole mountain town

And even as you held hands with skittish prospects
Of a different kiss tomorrow and always,
I curtsied to the old man in the dirt
And whittled my hurt and my tears away with his
Sandpaper beard and twirled around him in my muddy prairie skirt

To make room for the smooch of scruff and—no it doesn’t hurt—
Just tickle me with tobacco moths and kiss me with coffee breath
And send that old mountain man reeling with the
Sound of a cracked fiddle to his diddly-death.

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Ed: Bryonie Wise