Dead at Dale Hollow Lake. In Four Parts.

Part One.
Fog off the water is spirits, some say.

But I keep mine in a sunfish
near the cove I've named Paradise.


Part Two.
Dead in the lake isn't easy.

My skin slides off, quick like a silk-dress
and catfish, big as chevys,
undress me.

They remember the color of my fingernails as the mud sings
Swing Low.

Part Three.
The crow has found me, right where
the tide said to stay.
My insides are yellowed by the Tennessee sun

and from somewhere,
I forgive your dog for eating them.

Part Four.
My grandmother weeps into the water.

I Rolled Those Words in Honey.

Remember when I would draw on your face with my words? That one time, a buffalo skull on your cheek. We laughed and laughed and Out West, on our fingertips, stayed put.

And once, we touched shoulders in an art gallery. Your voice, my childhood stairs creaking on any given night, adjusted the earth with ease.

Remember?

And if you're asking, I'm fine.