Springsteen sings something
about Mary’s dress and a screen door.
We crashed through the plate glass,
the storm door resisted, our hands
braced for shards. Mother loved
us & the church & music.
A lioness & a teacher—her pride left her.
That fall, our brother fell from
gray skies while National Geographic
stacks swelled in the basement.
There were rides & dancing,
burning piles of leaves, apples laid to rot.
We smelled like Father’s cigarettes.
Old men kept quiet and off to one side.
On Thanksgiving they tilled, hunting
for bird or squirrel or slaughtering the hog.
David S. Higdon is a writer from Kentucky. He is the recipient of the 2021 Kentucky State Poetry Society Grand Prix Prize. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Rust + Moth, Black Moon Magazine, Coffin Bell Journal, Exposition Review, and others. He lives with his family in Louisville, Kentucky.