Tupelo Honey
A town awakes
to a butterscotch
sunrise.
From hotels and
apartments in
Western Europe,
she tells her friends
and others who listen,
“I’m from Tupelo, honey,
my father loathes
me for the person
I’ve become.”
A town works
and plays
to a Southern
comfort tempo.
Four page letters
lost in transit.
Unopened dreams
and playground poems,
discarded gifts
from tortured
bloodlines. Shattered
hopes dying
in a twisted bed.
A hungry woman
fed
on suppression.
Ever open hearts
on sleeves
that weep.
“ Touch me not,
for I have much
to hurt you. Save
yourself from this
love so rare,
tell me I’m right,
not a tainted angel.
Caress my emotions
on this switchback ride”
A small town
sleeps to a lemon
peel moon.
