It goes down like that real ish…
warm on the tongue, with just enough bite.
Like history through aged eyes,
like a tingling gut when the air is still; it’s
a knowing, showing its wear like
It fits, but the threads are worn,
seams – a little torn,
fabric’s been stretched just enough to
lose a bit of color.
It moves like a tired mother,
slow and with purpose, but it’ll
get where it’s going ‘cause that’s the
only option at hand.
It overstands without explanation,
without institutional education, since it
carries antiquity in the shadow of its soul.
It’s all the broken pieces piecemealed
into a whole and you can’t just
slice out the sections you crave.
Every portion is a full taste,
deliciously unsettled as it goes down.
It’s the best thing around.
At times, hard to find, but never too far;
southern comfort is the murmur of the
overcomer’s heart, the
whisper in a smile that almost didn’t come, the
exhale of a spirit not quite done…
resting hushed as it stirs the atmosphere,
awaiting the occasion to enlighten another ear.